Hollywood (37 page)

The trouble was that she was under contract to one of the major studios, which meant that she averaged about three pictures a year, each of which shot for approximately seven weeks. This meant that for some twenty-one weeks each year, her husband was—so to speak—on his own.

He told me all this late one night in the bar at “Mae’s,” and added, “I’m telling you—I swear to God—if I hadn’t wandered into this place one afternoon—Gene Fowler told me about it, but I thought he was giving me a heart-to-heart—you know how he is—full of pranks. Anyway, I dropped up and—God Almighty!—when ‘she’ walked in, I damn near keeled over. I mean, I thought it was
her
! And three martinis later, I
knew
it was. So my problem got solved. I mean to say, I’m not like some of these town tomcats around this town. I’m a one-woman man, and that’s it. And as far as I’m concerned, I’ve never cheated on my wife, not once, not in eleven years. That’s how I am.”

That’s how he was.

A single experience of my own was equally weird. I was directing
They Knew What
They Wanted
, starring Carole Lombard and Charles Laughton.

I was a young Hollywood bachelor, and like everyone else who ever came into contact with Carole Lombard, I fell. The fact that she was married to Clark Gable did not seem to deter my fantasies. She was everything I had always wanted a girl to be: beautiful, funny, talented, imaginative, able, warm, dear, and no-nonsense.

I found myself touching her at every possible opportunity, and when those opportunities did not arise, I invented some. I was, to put it mildly, bedazzled by this golden girl—although I knew I was in a hopeless situation.

Then my brother married. His friends gave the customary prenuptial stag dinner. When it ended, part of the group, by prearrangement, repaired to “Mae’s.”

And in came “Carole.” I took her aside and we talked for a long time. We discussed the stuff we had shot that day, and I explained what we were going to do on the following day. She
loved
my ideas. We panned Laughton. She told me she was thinking of leaving Clark. A clash of careers. I told her I thought she was doing the wise—the
only
thing. She asked me if I was hungry. I said yes. She suggested we have supper up in her suite. I told her I thought that was a great idea. The rest is a Glorious Technicolor, out-of-focus, slow-motion dream.

The next morning, I was the star of our little on-the-set ritual. Carole Lombard and Frank Fay and I had fallen into the habit of meeting in my trailer every morning right after the first shot for coffee and conversation. Our meetings soon developed a theme of sorts. We agreed that we would each tell—in precise, unsparing detail—what we had done the night before. Often, there was little to tell; more often, I suspected Frank of soaring invention; Carole and I usually played it straight.

I told of my visit to “Mae’s,” of my encounter with “Carole,” leaving out nothing.

My account was punctuated by Carole screaming with laughter, “I’ll die! I’ll die. Wait till I tell Clark! Jesus, no, I better not. He’ll
go
there! I’ll die! I’ll die!”

A friend from the East came to visit. He was a journalist, a columnist, and interested, of course, in Hollywood put-down material. He did not get it from me. I was, by then, a Hollywood patriot.

One night, at the Trocadero, my friend began to expatiate upon the dull and colorless nightlife my new town had to offer. I disagreed. We began to argue.

When it became clear I was losing, I said, “Excuse me.”

I went to the phone and called “Mae.”

Within half an hour, we were sitting around the bar up there with “Myrna,” “Claudette,” “Ginger,” and “Paulette.”

My friend looked as though he had been issued a mouth that wouldn’t shut.

Later, much later, we were having a sandwich and nightcap with “Mae.” I could hear the wheels of my friend’s writing machinery clicking fitfully in his head. He was frowning. I could guess the problem that occupied him. What a story! But if he wrote it, who would (in 1938) publish it? And say it did in some way manage to get published, who would believe it?

Still, his newspaperman’s drive could not be braked. He began to ask questions; small, large; discreet, indiscreet. “Mae” answered them all in kind.

Finally, there was a pause. Information was being digested along with the superlative club sandwiches and beer.

My friend took a breath and plunged back in.

“‘Miss West’—” he began.

“Call me, ‘Mae,’” said “Mae.”

“Really?” he asked.

“‘Fcawss,” she said. “I’m
pahsh
’l to genimen of the press.”

My friend blinked. “I know y’,” “Mae” continued. “Seen y’pitcha many times. Read y’stuff sometimes.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Did y’think I bullieved you’re ‘Jay Gatsby,’ f’cryin’ out loud? Anyway, I happen t’know
he’s dead
.”

She looked at me, reproachfully. I had indeed introduced my friend as Fitzgerald’s hapless hero.

“Go ahead, Jimmy,” she said, now on a new footing.

“Well, what I was going to ask—‘Mae’—was just—”

He hesitated, feeling less free now that his anonymity had been shattered.

“Go ahead, fella,” she urged. “We’re all friends here.”

“Well,” he said, “do all your girls—I mean, every one—do they all do—well,
everything
?”

In the circumstances, his blush seemed out of place.

“Whaddaya mean
everything
?” asked “Mae” as if she didn’t know.

“I mean, you know, right down the line?” He winced at his own clumsy locution. “I mean—”

“Mae” rescued him.

“Okay,” she said, “I know what y’mean. Y’got no business askin’ such a thing. It’s— y’know—pretty innamit after all. But now that y’ve ast…Every one of my girls here does
everything
.” She paused, looked off. “Except, of course, that stuck-up little ‘Janet Gaynor’!”

Jimmy never did write about “Mae.” It would have seemed a betrayal of sorts. Even now, several wars later, I wonder if
I
should be doing so. No matter. “Mae’s” is no more. A condominium stands on the site and what good is that?

“Mae’s” was most certainly the most memorable—well, I suppose “whorehouse”
is
the word, but somehow it did not then, and does not now, seem to fit “Mae’s.”

“
And the winner is—
”

We all waited for the voice on the radio to continue. Suddenly, Einstein’s incomprehensible theory of relativity became crystal clear. It was taking only a few seconds for Brod Crawford to open the envelope. He would then read the name of the winner. Those few seconds seemed like an hour to some and like a year to others, depending upon their involvement in the results.

It was 1951, and the annual ritual sponsored by the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences had not yet become the present-day television spectacular which is viewed world-wide, they say, by over 60 million people. The event had progressed from the first modest hotel banquet to a ceremony that was being broadcast for only the tenth time.

As it happened, many of the nominees, as well as other interested parties, were in New York. Among them, José Ferrer, nominated for his performance in
Cyrano
; Gloria Swanson for
Sunset Boulevard
; Judy Holliday for
Born Yesterday
.

Ferrer and Miss Swanson were acting together on Broadway in a revival of
Twentieth Century
. Other nominees who were in New York were Celeste Holm, Sam Jaffe, Thelma Ritter, and George Cukor. José Ferrer decided to give an after-theatre party in New York at La Zambra Café. Most of his fellow nominees attended.

In Hollywood, the presentations were being made at the RKO Pantages Theatre. In New York, about 300 people were gathered, listening to the results on an amplified radio. When José Ferrer was announced as the winner, the little crowd went wild. The ABC radio network cut in from Hollywood to pick up his acceptance speech. It was packed with emotion, since Ferrer had been under a cloud of suspicion as a result of having been subpoenaed by the House Un-American Activities Committee.

He said, “This means more to me than an honor to an actor. I consider it a vote of confidence and an act of faith and, believe me, I’ll not let you down.”

In Hollywood, Helen Hayes officially accepted the Oscar for him.

… “
And the winner is—
”

The words were frozen in the smoky air.

During the pause, I looked across the room and watched Judy. She appeared remarkably calm. Did she care? Beside her sat Gloria Swanson, smiling a professional
smile. Was it confidence or merely nerves? She leaned toward Judy and whispered something in her ear. Judy nodded.

Later, I asked Judy about that whisper. She told me that Miss Swanson had said, softly, “One of us is about to be very happy.”

As the pause stretched out, I reflected upon the curious set of circumstances that had brought Judy to this time and place.

I had written
Born Yesterday
in London during the war for my friend Jean Arthur. When eventually she read it, she was not enthusiastic about the play, and even less enthusiastic about the idea of herself in the leading role.

I made the mistake of talking her into it. Rehearsals were almost immediately fraught with difficulties and compromise. Jean had been a movie star for some years and had become highly adept at projecting her enormously attractive personality, but less skilled in creating a character. It was soon clear that we were going to get, not Jean Arthur as “Billie Dawn,” but “Billie Dawn” as Jean Arthur.

I decided, under pressure from the management, to settle for this condition. Commercial considerations outweighed artistic ones. But Jean grew increasingly restive. An actress playing a part for which she does not feel suited is as uncomfortable as one wearing a badly fitted dress. Still, we struggled our way through rehearsals, hoping—as theatre people are wont to do—that it would all come right on the night.

It almost did. The first tryout performance in New Haven was half-triumphant. It looked as if there was a show in there somewhere. I expected that Jean would be, along with the rest of us, sufficiently encouraged to work toward the fulfillment of the promise.

Instead, she wrote me a note asking to be replaced as soon as possible and insisting that five important lines and two vital scenes be omitted from the next performance. Trouble.

The producer was Max Gordon, a strong manager of the old school, who was not prepared to give it all up without a fight. He used all of his considerable wiles to keep Jean Arthur from resigning. Changes were made. Some for the better, some not. By the time we opened in Boston, we had neither gained nor lost ground.

The on-stage and off-stage tensions began to affect Jean’s health. She missed performances.

Friends came up to see the play in Boston and agreed that it was that most tantalizing of theatre products—a Could-Be.

After two rocky weeks, we moved to Philadelphia for a scheduled Tuesday-night opening. Jean did not appear at the Monday rehearsal and on Tuesday morning, Max Gordon and I were summoned to her suite at the Hotel Warwick and were told by Dr. Barborka, who had flown in from Chicago, that in his considered medical opinion, Jean Arthur could neither open that night nor play the Philadelphia engagement.

“What’s the matter with her?” asked Max.

“Nervous exhaustion,” said the doctor.

“Me, too,” said Max. “Have you got something you can give me for it?”

The doctor explained that Jean was under sedation and that he planned to take her back to Chicago, where he would have her admitted to the Passavant Hospital for an indefinite period of time. Clearly, there was nothing more to say. We left.

The question: was there anything to
do
?

… “
And the winner is—
”

From the time Jean asked to be replaced, I had begun to consider other actresses. Three prospects turned me down without consideration. Two others had come to New Haven, and one to Boston, and all had declined.

Max Gordon sent for his general manager, Ben Boyar, and began to discuss the agonizing details of closing.

“Don't worry,” Max said to me. “We’ll put it together again and we’ll do it. Don’t worry.”

The more he said, “Don’t worry,” the more I worried. Shows that close out of town seldom reopen.

I began again going over the list of possibilities, wondering if any of them were worth a second try. I recalled that during a rehearsal in New Haven, I had mentioned something about my difficulties to Mainbocher, who had designed Jean’s clothes. He was anxious to change one of the dresses and I had to inform him that there was a possibility Jean would not continue.

“Do you know Judy Holliday?” asked Main.

“From the Revuers?” I asked. “Sure, she’s very good.”

“What about
her
?” he asked.

“Well, she’s terrific, Main, but not for
this
.”

“Oh,” he said. “I saw her in a bit last season in
Kiss Them for Me
. One scene. She played a little San Francisco tart. Superlative.”

“I didn’t see that,” I said.

“Pity,” said Main.

I had long respected Mainbocher’s theatre acumen. So, on the way from Boston to Philadelphia, I had stopped in New York and met with Judy Holliday and her agent, Belle Chodorov.

Judy, teamed with Betty Comden and Adolph Green and Alvin Hammer (and sometimes Leonard Bernstein at the piano), had made an impact on the New York cabaret scene. Judy was a standout; pert, versatile, comical, talented. But as we talked that Sunday afternoon in New York, she did not look anything like the girl I had in mind. Rattled and dispirited, I was making the common mistake of looking for a type rather than an actress.

Max and Ben were still discussing the closing. The economics of storing the scenery as against abandoning it was the topic.

“Listen,” I said suddenly. “Let’s try Judy Holliday.”

“Who?” asked Max.

“Judy Holliday,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” said Max impatiently. “Who? That fat Jewish girl from The Revuers? No. Like Dick Rodgers said one time at an audition, ‘This show is
by
Jews and
for
Jews, but it can’t be
with
Jews!’”

“She’s not so fat,” I said. “And, come to think of it, not so Jewish. But she’s funny and a hell of a good actress.”

“How do you know? She’s never done anything in the theatre.”

I repeated Mainbocher’s account. Max had seen her in that play.

He nodded and said, “She was damn good. But I don’t know. For this, a big part like this, a star part?”

Economics again. Ben Boyar sagely pointed out that it would, in fact, cost no more to play out the Philadelphia stand than it would to close.

… “
And the winner is—
”

Judy Holliday came down to Philadelphia late that afternoon. We had arranged for a room for her at the hotel. She had neither seen the play nor read it. I gave her a copy of the script and she went up to her room to read it. Two hours later, we met. She nodded her head, tentatively.

“The only thing is,” she said, “when?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” I said.

“Saturday night,” said Max.

Judy looked thunderstruck.

“I
couldn’t
!” she said.

“Saturday night,” said Max.

Judy shook her head in terror.

“Let’s go to work,” I said, “and then we’ll see.”

“Saturday night,” said Max.

I hustled Judy out of the room, took her upstairs to her room, and said, “Leave it to me. First, the words. That’s the main thing. Learn the words. If there’s anything we can do to help—a stage manager or anything like that, let me know.”

“Okay,” said Judy. “By the way. It’s a good play.”

The next three days were unreal. We hardly ever left the Locust Street Theatre. The rest of the company was all that one could hope for: helpful, cooperative, and warm. Mainbocher arrived and redid the clothes. Paul Schmidt of Elizabeth Arden’s came down and, late one night, in Judy’s bathroom, changed her hair from what it was to the unique reddish-blonde that was to remain her trademark for years to come.

From the first day, almost the first hour, it was plain that we were in luck. Judy was creating the character before our eyes.

There were, however, two disconcerting matters. First, Judy kept insisting that she could not possibly open on Saturday night. Second, there was no way to avoid seeing the long, long queue lined up at the box office. Generally, this is a joyous sight but in this case, it was not. The action was topsy-turvy, upside down, a nightmare. The tickets were being handed
in
and the money was being handed
back
!

I was appalled, but Max said, “Don’t worry. We’ve got a great show. We’re going to have. I wish that kid would lose some weight.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “She’s losing about a pound an hour.”

“Good,” said Max.

“And I’m losing about
two
pounds an hour.”

“Don’t worry,” said Max.

He was not being merely willful about insisting upon opening Saturday night. He knew that in the circumstances a Monday-night opening would draw a small house. Free passes would prove nothing. People who get in for nothing generally believe that that is what it is worth. Max knew that on Saturday night we could get a full house, that the play would go better, look better, and, in fact,
be
better.

We opened on Saturday night. Judy had rehearsed less than four days, as opposed to the customary four weeks. She gave a near-perfect performance. The show was an instantaneous success and was not to play to an empty seat for the next three years.

Harry Cohn, that hard-headed, single-minded original, responded to the show personally (I wonder if he ever realized that the leading male role, Harry Brock, had been named after him?) and he wanted it.

The trouble was, he and I were not speaking at the time. I had informed his New York representative that although the play was for sale, it was not for sale to Harry Cohn.

“You mean that?” he asked.

“I certainly do,” I said, and added gratuitously, “Not for a million bucks.”

This conversation was duly reported to Harry Cohn. Two months later he acquired the film rights to
Born Yesterday
—for a million bucks.

He is reported to have said to his staff, “I’ll show you how we’ll make a bum outta this guy!”

When the time came to make the picture, he accepted my suggestion of George Cukor as director, but that was all. He wanted me to write the screenplay “as a labor of love.” When I refused, he engaged other screenwriters to do this job, paying them twice what I had asked, but winning his point. I was later to work out the screenplay with George Cukor for nothing. Or was it “a labor of love”?

My suggestion that he do the picture with the excellent New York company, or at least with Judy Holliday and Paul Douglas, was ridiculed.

“What’s a matter with you?” said Cohn. “I’ve got Broderick Crawford here under contract. He just got an Oscar for
All the King’s Men
. And he’s perfect for the part.”

“Yes, but not as good as Paul Douglas.”

“No? Then how come you offered it first to Crawford and he turned you down?”

He had me there.

“And the girl. Yours? For the stage, all right, but for the screen, I’ve got Rita Hayworth under contract. I’ve got Lucille Ball. Maybe I’ll go for Alice Faye or Stanwyck. I mean, Jesus, this is no B picture here. I paid a lot of money for it. In fact,
too
much.”

No amount of persuasion was effective.

We began the long and complex strategy of building up a part in
Adam’s Rib
, which my wife and I were writing for Tracy and Hepburn at Metro. The idea was to have Judy play it as a sort of screen test which Cohn had refused to make for
Born Yesterday
.

The strategy succeeded with the help of Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, and George Cukor.

Judy scored decisively in
Adam’s Rib
. Cohn, to his credit, recognized her quality and signed her to repeat her stage role in the film.

… “
And the winner is
—Judy Holliday for
Born Yesterday
!”

Gloria Swanson blanched, recovered at once, leaned over, embraced Judy Holliday, and kissed her.

Judy was truly astonished. She had not expected to win.