Hill of beans, p.19
Hill of Beans, page 19
That’s when I noticed for the first time how the set had been transformed into an airport. The plane Ingrid mentioned was a cardboard cutout, complete with the Air France flying horse on its tail and a bunch of white-clothed mechanics—why, they were midgets, as cute as munchkins!—gathered around it. That’s the magic of our business! In the pea soup that the fog machines were pumping out, it all looked so real. Incidentally, Paul was born Paul Georg Julius Freiherr von Ritter von Wassel-Waldingau. What that tongue twister means is that he comes from an aristocratic family, not at all like those of dubious descent who play so many parts in this Hungarian goulash of a picture.
“Look, Hedda. Just look at this!” The actress reached into one of her outsized pockets—you could get half the UCLA Bruins football team in there—and pulled out a handful of papers, all of them in different colors: brown and blue and salmon and pink and a bright magenta. “See? Each color has a different ending. As soon as I memorize one line, they come up with another. It’s driving me crazy! Until they make up their minds, there’s nothing for us to do but sit on our hands.”
I took another look around the set. Those dwarfs were indeed dawdling under the fake wings of their DC-3. Over to one side, Bogie was playing chess with Conrad Veidt, who is the heavy in this rather run-of-the-mill drama. Art Edelson, who runs the cameras, was circling horse after horse on the Santa Anita form, while Hal Wallis paced back and forth with the steam coming out of his ears—and can you blame him at twelve thousand dollars an hour?
Just then I saw the pretty Madeleine Lebeau—her name means “the beautiful”—come out from behind the front end of a fancy German car. Mike Curtiz came out from around the back, adjusting his trousers and shouting, “Where is poodle? I asked for a poodle!” Ernie Glickman, the plump PA, said that there was no such thing in the script. Then Mike practically turned purple. “You dumdum. Big bas**** dumdum. I go nuts! Where is poodle?” Hal Wallis said, “For C*****’s sake, Glickman. Don’t stand there: go get him the dog.”
“Dog? What dog? Idiot! Headknuckle idiot! I want poodle! On the runway! Poodle of water! Mr. Rick! Mr. Renault! They must go splash-splash-splash when they take the walk.”
Everyone laughed. But I was sad because it looked like the rumors about M. Dalio divorcing his little French poo—I mean filly—were true.
At that moment Jack Warner in his handsome Army Air Force uniform came striding through the Stage 1 door. Right away everybody pretended to be busy. The darling Lilliputians began hammering away at their aircraft; Claude Rains put on the kepi of a Vichy capitain; and Mike Curtiz cried out over the hubbub, “Anybody who has some talking to do, shut up!”
“You can’t con me,” Jack said. “I heard all of you laughing. What’s the big joke? And why aren’t you shooting? I heard you let that old bag of a gossip columnist for the Times on the set. You know the rules. No one except—Oh, there you are! Hedda, darling! Maybe you can let me know what’s so d***** funny?”
But Ingrid spoke before I could get in a word. “It is the writers. We don’t know the ending. How can I act if I don’t know who I am in love with?”
“I knew it! Abdul! Go get the Epsteins. Abdul!” He meant my old pal, Abdul Maljan, who was nowhere to be found.
“What the f***?” Jack exclaimed. “Where is everybody?”
“I’ll get him, J.L.,” said Ernie. “I’ll get the Epsteins, too.”
At last your faithful correspondent was able to get a word in. “You don’t need the writers, Jack. I can tell you right now that Joe Breen will never allow Ingrid to leave her husband to fly off with another man. And even if he did, I’d set up a howl. There’s enough for young people to worry about without our industry corrupting their morals. There! You’ve got your ending. And I’m not even on your payroll!”
“Hmmm,” said the vice president for production. “I do believe you are right.”
“And while this old bag of a gossip columnist is at it,” I continued, “I want a word with you about these costumes—”
But that’s when Hal Wallis elbowed his way in. “Don’t worry, J.L.,” he said. “Everything’s under control. The boys promised to give us the lines any minute, and we’re going to shoot around them until then. We’re just setting up the last scene now. Look—”
He pointed to where one of the grips had run up with a bucket of water and was spreading its contents onto the make-believe macadam of the runway. “Okay,” he shouted. “Let’s have some more fog! Plenty of it!”
He got what he asked for, though I couldn’t help wondering how the weather in London had moved into the desert. I was just about to ask that very question when out of the mist came Julius J. and Philip G., the bald-domed Epstein twins. The moment I saw them I had to look away, because they were dressed in nothing but their bathrobes. Jack saw them, too.
“What’s going on here? Did we wake you from your naps? No wonder you can’t come up with the lines after Strasser is shot. How can the president fly me off to Moscow next month when no one knows how the picture ends? It’s intolerable! It’s, it’s—disloyal!”
“Then why don’t you ask Joe Stalin to finish it?” said Julie. Or maybe it was Phil.
“What?” I cried. “Moscow? What? What? What?”
“Ooops,” said Jack Warner.
“You tell me. Tell me now!”
But the studio executive, hands on his hips, was glaring at the two writers. “G******! This time you sons of b****** have gone too far.”
“What is it, Jack?”
“Did we forget to salute?”
“Salute? I don’t want you to salute. I want you to come up with the lines you’ve been paid for. It’s not too late to take you off this picture. If you don’t have them in two minutes, two minutes, that’s just what I’ll do.”
Wallis stepped between his boss and his writers. “Come on, Jack. You know you don’t mean it. We can’t do a thing without the boys.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s what you think. And don’t call me Jack. There’s a war on, in case you didn’t notice. I’m a lieutenant colonel.”
“Excuse me, Colonel. I only wanted to say this is no time for a court-martial. The boys will have an ending in just a minute.”
“And one minute is all they have left. I’m looking at my watch. Well? I thought so. These bums don’t have a clue about who says what to who.”
“Not a clue?” echoed Julie. “What a terrible thing to say.”
“Scandalous,” said his brother.
“Perhaps libelous.”
“You’ll be lucky if we don’t sue you for a statement like that.”
“Yeah?” said the lieutenant colonel. He slapped his olive-colored trousers as if there were an invisible swagger stick in his hand. “Go ahead. Tell me. Tell everybody. I’m counting. Forty-seven. Forty-six. Er, er, forty-five!
Just then that portly PA, who, if he knew what was good for him, would Reach for a Lucky instead of a Sweet, came onto the set with the still-dashing Abdul Maljan in tow. Heavens to Betsy! That’s what I said to myself, because he was wearing a bathrobe, too!
“What is this?” said Jack. “A pajama party?”
“Sorry, Chief. I was just—”
“Never mind, never mind,” said Jack Warner. “I’m about to fire these two jokers. You don’t think I’ll do it? Just watch. Eleven. Ten. Nine. Hmmm: Eight!”
Julie looked up, Philip looked down. Then Philip looked up and Julie looked down. Both bit their lips.
“Four. Three—”
Off to one side Mike Curtiz had been busily rehearsing Major von Strasser for a gunshot scene. He was showing him how he wanted him to fall after he’d been hit. “Lunge!” he shouted. “Like this. Lunge!”
“Okay,” said Julius Epstein.
“If you insist,” said his brother Phil.
And before you knew it the entire company broke for lunch.
14
SEAS OF SAND
Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood: November 1942, Los Angeles
When Veronica Lake was in New York, she decided to make her first visit to an automat. As she was deciding between a ham sandwich and a piece of cake, a well-dressed older woman nudged her and said, “What’s the matter with you youngsters—always trying to look like movie stars. You’re a pretty girl. Why don’t you just look like yourself?”
Here’s a head-scratcher for you: some of our top studio brass have gone AWOL. Yes, I mean you, Daryl F. Zanuck. And you, too, Jack L. Warner. Where are you off to? No one has seen hide nor hair of you—and my friend Jack may have a plenty thick hide but awfully thin hair—for the last three weeks. I haven’t laid eyes on the top Warners’ exec since that first sunny Sunday in October. He was in his tennis whites and bragging to everyone how he’d just taken a set from Bill Tilden. Tell that to the marines! Well, maybe that’s just what he is doing. Dollars to donuts, these fighting filmmakers are off on a secret mission on behalf of our country’s armed forces. Where could it be? I’ve got a hunch, but I can’t print it here without revealing state secrets. Here’s a hint: Don’t take your Luckys, boys; where you’re going you’ll need a camel!
Jack L. Warner: November 1942, Off the Coast of Morocco
“Wake up, Chief! It’s 0400 hours.”
Abdul. I don’t say a word. If I open my mouth I’ll lose my dinner. My stomach! It’s flipping around like a flapjack. Don’t think about food! Two weeks and I still can’t keep down anything but these goddamn biscuits. Sea biscuits, ha ha! That’s a good one. Oh! I get even sicker at the thought of that nag. Ten thousand bucks down the drain at the Hundred-Grander. And don’t talk to me about the Match of the Century. I put a bundle on War Admiral at 1–5. And he lost by four lengths. Seabiscuit! They put up a statue of that dog at Santa Anita.
I wouldn’t bet a nickel on this war admiral, either. Hewitt or Screwit or whatever his name is. Keeps chuckling whenever he sees me: What ho, my hearty! Who does he think he is, Captain Blood? ONCE AGAIN THE SEA ECHOES TO THE THUNDER OF HISTORY’S MOST DARING PIRATE! Two million gross.
“Chief! It’s 0410. We go over the side in half an hour.”
“Beat it, will ya? Or someone else is going over the side. And can’t you speak English? What the hell time is it? What’s going on?”
All of a sudden somebody else starts in, but he isn’t speaking English, either. Allô, Maroc. Allô, Maroc—
“Hey, wait a minute! I know that voice. It’s—”
Le Président des Etats Unis, M. Franklin Delano
Roosevelt, s’est addressé cette nuit au peuple
Française. Mes amis . . .
“It’s the president, Chief.”
“I know it’s the president. What’s he saying? What’s going on in the mezzanine?”
“He’s telling the French that we’re coming in peace, as friends, and that we want to fight the Germans together, and—wait a second, my French isn’t all that hot—”
Vive La France Éternal!
“Long live France. Do you know what that means? The invasion is on!”
“Invasion? What invasion?”
“The one you’re here to photograph. The invasion of Casablanca!”
“Casablanca! Why didn’t you say so? Zanuck, that son of a bitch, pulled every string in the book. He came over on a plane. He’s probably already landed. Don’t just stand there, you dumb Turkish towel. Where is my helmet? Where are my boots?”
George S. Patton, Jr.: November 1942, Off the Coast of Morocco
Woke at 0200, dressed, and went on deck. Fedala lights and lights at Casa burning, also lights on shore. Sea dead calm. No swell: God is with me on the ladder of destiny. At 0410 every ship began to broadcast Roosevelt’s message. Too soon. If the enemy was sleeping before, they are wide awake now. Mes amis. Mes amis. Where did he get that God-awful French? At Groton? Too late to do anything about it, so Hewitt and all the others began to broadcast Ike’s message, which basically came down to don’t fight your friends and switch your searchlights to vertical as a sign of welcome.
The troops were given my letter when they woke this morning.
Soldiers:
You are to be congratulated because you have been chosen as the units of the United States Army best trained to take part in this great American venture.
It is not known whether the French African Army, composed of both white and colored troops, will contest our landing. It is regrettable to contemplate the necessity of fighting the gallant French, who are at heart sympathetic toward us, but all resistance by whomever offered must be destroyed.
The eyes of the world are watching us; the heart of America beats for us; God is with us. On our victory depends the freedom or slavery of the human race. We shall surely win.
In other words, Blood and Guts, speech number 32. But better than Mes amis.
At 0500 the first of our landing craft set out for the beaches at Fedala, and a few minutes later who should show up on deck but the Kike. Green around the gills. Phosphorescent, almost. Stuck his thumb in his eye, it looked like, when he tried to salute.
First I heard of him was right before sailing, when Hewitt and I reported to the president. “Come in, Skipper and Old Cavalryman, and give me the good news.” Then he proceeded to lecture the admiral about how to moor a ship to keep it head to wind by a stern rudder. It’s what he does with his yacht. And that was pretty much that, except I managed to get in my line that, “The admiral and I feel that we must get ashore regardless of cost, as the fate of the world hinges on our success.” Naturally the admiral felt no such thing, but before he could say a word, the president answered, “Of course you must.”
Then, just as we were leaving, he told me he arranged for a friend of his, a lieutenant colonel, to cover Operation Torch for the Signal Corps, and would I keep an eye on him as he had never been in combat before. With that we shook hands and said our familiars. A great politician is not of necessity a great military leader.
And who did this lieutenant colonel turn out to be? Our Kike, which is to say a man who is not prepared to die for his country—or for any other reason.
“Where is your Bell & Howell?” I asked him.
“Yell and Howl? To scare the Frogs?” That’s his idea of a joke.
“You’ve got a camera, soldier. That’s what you’re here to shoot. Lord knows it’s not a gun.”
“Abdul,” this son of Abraham shouted to his orderly. “You forgot the camera. Go back and get it.”
Just then—it was 0530—a searchlight on shore went vertical. “Goddamn it to hell! The signal! They’re not going to let us have our fight.”
Jack L. Warner: November 1942, Off the Coast of Morocco
Up on deck. Either the boat is rocking or I am. Patton reminds me to get my Bull—and How! I haven’t been behind a camera for thirty years, not since Sam and I made Raiders on the Mexican Border. WE PUT THE DARING IN DERRING DO! And if you want to know the truth, it was me, not Griffith, who invented the close-up: not on Dot Farley’s face but on her boobs. We zeroed right in after Pancho Villa with a fake moustache and a shoeshine tan ripped off half her blouse and hauled her up on top of his rented horse.
Now, Señorita, you will come with me to my
hacienda.
Harry made us cut the footage, which in my opinion was a terrible mistake and solely responsible for turning a sensational box-office hit into a turkey. Now we’re stuck with Joe Breen, who wouldn’t let Bergman into bed with Bogart, though even a two-year-old would know they were schtupping all night. So we shot a searchlight going left and going right. That’s your meshuganah highbrow art!
“Look! Will you look at that?”
The general, he’s pointing toward the Moroccan coast, where a searchlight—what a coincidence, huh? It could be the same one we showed in Casablanca—was now aiming down toward the beaches.
“We’re going to get our fight after all!”
Just then all hell breaks loose, so I hit the deck, and from down there I see red sparks flying through the air, and in spite of the fact I haven’t set foot in schul since I was kicked out for pulling the rabbi’s nose, I start to shout, “Sh’ma Yisrael!” and cross myself to boot. Now Abdul comes up with the camera and wants to know what I am doing lying flat on my back, and I say, “Some schmuck dropped a banana peel.” Then I get up just in time to see that all those sparks are coming from the boats in our fleet and going in the direction of that far-off searchlight, which—presto—goes out.
“Got the son of a bitch!” says Patton.
Now the sun is starting to come up, and I can see the white wake of the landing boats pushing through the water, and the geysers shooting up all around them, and the flashing of the guns on the ships and on the shore, and I’ve got my thumbs in my ears it’s so loud, and our ship—what’s it called? Oh, yeah, the Augusta—is zigging and zagging, which isn’t doing my kishkes any good, especially when I see Old Faithful erupt on one side of us and we get a good spritzing on the other, and some planes from our carrier are zooming about ten feet over our heads to attack this big Frog battleship in the harbor; it’s like the scenes with the Spanish Armada in the The Sea Hawk, with Flynn playing the same role as ever, and the cannons going off and hand-to-hand fighting, NEVER BEFORE SO MANY GIANT THRILLS IN ONE PICTURE. Yeah, never before in one picture, and I hope never again, so many giant dollars, one point seven million, you could build two of these Aghastas for that kind of money; but thank you, Jesus, we ended up netting more than two, because we had a happy ending with Flynn getting the girl. Really, there’s only one plot when you come right down to it, even Hamlet by—wait! Don’t tell me! Shakespeare! Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl: then why did those Epstein wise-acres change the Casablanca script so that the boy loses the girl again and then walks off with Rains, which is more than a little fruity if you ask me? We can’t have that, no, no, no—so we’ll release the picture in a couple of weeks on Thanksgiving and that way it will be eligible for an Academy Award, though my personal favorite this year is Murder in the Big House, IT’S THE CRIME OF YOUR LIFE!, with Van Johnson over the titles, speaking of fruits. Then we’ll withdraw the Bogart picture and reshoot the ending, with the footage from this very invasion, maybe shot by this same Bowl of Chow—don’t mention food to me! Sometimes, when I think of how all this came together—I mean how I thought up the name of the picture, and the timing, and the talk with Roosevelt and billiards with the Russians, and now this searchlight and the army landing right on cue: well, I think okay, maybe Somebody Up There is looking out for this Yid from Youngstown, even if I did give a good yank on that rabbi’s beard and—
