Hollywood (9 page)

Discussing the Anna Sten saga, he said to me one evening, “Everybody thought she was German, some people still think so. Maybe because she made all those big hits in the German movies. But no. She was Russian. Ukrainian. That’s right, she was born in Kiev. And she was on the stage in Russia. In Moscow, in fact. And she made movies there, too. But it wasn’t till she went to Berlin—I don’t know why, something with a husband—that she made her sensation…I tell you, you never know. The day I signed her I thought it was the greatest day of my whole career. I thought, ‘This is some star!’ She had everything. She had looks and style and sex and class. She had tremendous life and she could act like a son of a bitch…And we talked and talked for almost a year to try to figure out what we could make with her. She was a great actress, and a great actress has got to have a great part. And after a while we went to the classics. And somebody came up with
Nana
by Zola. A great story. A great part. I got two fine writers and I decided, for a woman’s story like this, why not a woman director? There was only one woman director in those days—Dorothy Arzner—and she was good. And my God, what a cast I got to surround her! Sten, I mean. Phillips Holmes, remember him? What a good-looking boy! Lionel Atwill, one of the greatest actors. And Richard Bennett, maybe
the
greatest actor. And even in the small parts, I had Mae Clarke, Reggie Owen, people like that. We didn’t spare a goddamn thing. Rodgers and f’Chrissake Hart even to write a song for the picture. But it didn’t go. I tell you, looking back on it, I think the original property was a mistake. We couldn’t do the real story because the censor wouldn’t let us. And when you tell a story, you’ve got to be true to the story. If you’re not true to the story, then don’t make it in the first place.”

I said, “I read somewhere that you said she was—just a minute.” I took a note out of my pocket and read, “ ‘An actress whose beauty seems to have sprung from the soil, and whose intelligence is that of the instinctive artist and the earnest student of life.’ ”

Goldwyn waved a hand at me in a deprecating way. “Some goddamn press agent,” he said. “Probably Pete Smith.”

“Pete Smith, the comic? The one who does those great one-reelers?”

“That’s the fellow. He used to be my press agent. He was a good press agent. Listen, I
made
him into a good press agent. He made
himself
into a lousy comic. That’s how people are. They don’t know what to do with themselves.”

“Well,
then
what happened with Anna Sten?”

“Who knows? Another goddamn classic we had to go for, in fact another goddamn
Russian
classic, how do you like
that
? I must’ve been
crazy
that year. We took the Tolstoy book
Resurrection
. We figured nobody would know what that means, that title. In fact, they wouldn’t even know how to
pronounce
it. So we called it
We Live Again
. Amounts to the same thing. And you talk about writers. Did I have writers on
that
one! Preston Sturges. Maxwell Anderson. I can’t even
remember
who else. I got her Fredric March, how do you like
that
? He was about the best actor around in the movies at that time. So what happened? Great reviews and no business…Then Eddie Knopf did an original and I got her King Vidor and I gave her Gary Cooper.
The Wedding Night
, that was the name of it. So what happened? Again, nothing. In fact, more nothing than
before
even…Well, I don’t know much about baseball, but I know that three strikes is ‘Out.’ So we had a few meetings. Pleasant. They were nice people. Anna and her husband and me. And we all decided we should call it quits…I look back now. That night, I sat in that room and I saw that goddamn Karamazov thing and she came on the screen. I tell you, everything in my heart told me she was going to be the biggest thing in the history of the motion pictures. And plenty of other people thought so, too, believe me. They don’t admit it like I do, but plenty of people…So when I sit here, day in and day out, and people come in and tell me, ‘I’m
sure
about this, I
know
about that,’ I just look at them, and inside I’m smiling. To myself. Because I want to tell you something about this business. Nobody
knows
anything. You can think and you can feel and you can believe, but you can’t
know
…That’s why I make the picture to please myself, and I hope everybody else will like it. I have to guess. I have to please myself, that’s the main thing.
I
have to like it. Then sometime, when it’s finished, even
I
don’t like it, so what can you do?”

I asked, “Do you think the trouble might have been that these were talkies? If you’d brought her over in the silent days, do you think the result would have been different?”

“Who knows?” he replied wearily. “And are you starting in with me again about that talkie thing?”

“No, no, Mr. Goldwyn, really not.”

“Because I want to show you something. I show this to lots of people. They’re usually surprised. I think
you’re
going to be surprised also.”

He reached down into a desk drawer and handed me a photo-static copy of a letter.

“Read this,” he said.

I took it, and asked, “Who’s it from?”

“That’s what I’ll tell you later.” I noticed the signature had been obliterated. “It’s from an actor,” said Goldwyn. “From an actor I had under contract. He was under contract to
me for a long time, and he was doing very well, a big star, and his pictures were hits. And the way things were going, somebody in my legal department told me they believed we should put an amendment in everybody’s contract, everybody we had under contract, to cover sound pictures. They didn’t even call them talkies yet. Sound pictures, they called them. So we sent out all these amendments to all these actors and actresses, or to their agents, and they all came back. Signed. It was nothing. Just routine. Then I got this letter, the one you’ve got in your hand. Read it.”

I found it so interesting that later I asked Mr. Goldwyn to let me have a copy.

5th August, 1928.

My dear Sam,

With reference to the additional clause in the contract, I would rather not sign this, at any rate, just at present. Except as a scientific achievement, I am not sympathetic to this “sound business.” I feel, as so many do, that this is a mechanical resource, that it is a retrogressive and temporary digression in as far as it effects the art of motion-picture acting—in short, that it does not properly belong in my particular work (of which, naturally, I must be the best judge).

That the public are, for the time being, demanding this novelty, is obvious, and that the producer is anxious to supply it, is natural, and for the actor to contend against it would be foolish. After four years of experience with myself, the firm should have no doubt as to my reasonable cooperation in this matter—as in others.

For me to function conscientiously before the microphone is one thing, but to sign a legally phrased document authorizing this is a very different matter, and would logically presuppose my approval of this mechanical accessory to my work.

I hope I have made this clear, Sam. May I ask that the company will respect these conditions and leave the matter where it is? Kind regards, always,

I looked up. “Who?”

“You’ll never guess,” said Goldwyn. “Ronnie Colman. With that beautiful voice and that beautiful speech, he had plenty of stage experience and everything, but you see,
he
didn’t believe in sound pictures either. Talkies. It was a funny time, only what— eighteen, nineteen years ago? And it’s like it was a whole ’nother world. And how the whole revolution happened was just crazy. Business was bad. In the theatres, the big ones, they were putting in stage shows and vaudevilles. In the small houses, they were giving away dishes and presents and turkeys and business was bad. And nobody knew what to do. Sure, all these people were around with their ideas for sound and talkies, but it was going to cost a fortune and nobody had the money. And the ones who did have a little didn’t want to risk it. But Jack Warner and Harry, they were in terrible shape. In fact, Jack told me they were getting ready to pack it in. Maybe even take a bath. So they took the flier. They had absolutely nothing to lose. They were broke anyway. So they took the flier and made the whole revolution. I’m not saying it wouldn’t’ve happened anyway, but it wouldn’t’ve happened
then
, maybe not for a
long
time.”

I think of Samuel Goldwyn as an American Primitive, possessed of a superior instinct for the profession in which he finally found himself. This is not to say that he was
not often duped or snowed or conned. Those who retain a part of their innocence are easy prey for those who have lost all theirs.

I remember the day when, along with the rest of his staff, I was called in to hear Leo McCarey tell a story.

Leo McCarey was a Hollywood meteor. He had begun in the business as a property man but soon was a property man making suggestions for gags and routines and bits of business. He was graduated to gagman. From there it was only a short step to directing one-reelers, then two-reelers and, finally, feature pictures.

McCarey possessed a rare comic intelligence. He could create hilarious situations, and imaginatively, almost inexhaustibly, develop those situations. He was not a writer, but he was a superlative talker, and in a time and place where there was a paucity of readers and a plethora of listeners, talkers were more effective (and more successful) than writers.

Goldwyn had under contract, among others, Gary Cooper and Merle Oberon. We were told daily by him to f’Chrissake find something for Cooper. Also for Oberon. Nothing for either of them had turned up.

Hollywood had always been a small town. There were few secrets there and everything about every studio was generally known by those who made it their business to amass that most valuable of all commodities—accurate information.

We assembled in Goldwyn’s office.

“Gentleman,” said Goldwyn, “Mr. McCarey here has a great idea for a great picture and he is going to do us the honor this afternoon of telling us. It’s very nice of you, Leo, and I want you to know we all appreciate it. And I know right now if this is your story, it must be a good story because you’re good. At stories. In fact, you’re one of the best. I’ve always said so, right from the beginning. ‘Ruggle in Red Gaps’ and so forth. All right, gentlemen, Mr. McCarey is going to tell us his story, so please, I want everybody to listen very carefully and keep quiet. If you want to make notes, make notes quietly. Go ahead, Leo.”

He leaned back in his chair, put his long finger against his long nose and gave his full attention to Leo McCarey.

McCarey did an unprecedented thing. He stretched out on Goldwyn’s office sofa, crossed his ankles, put his hands back of his head, closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and began.

(This is the way to do it, I thought. By God, if
I
ever get a chance to tell a story, this is how
I’m
going to do it. Just stretch out, looked relaxed as hell, and let everyone
else
in the room be tense. He had not yet begun and already I had made a few notes. Quietly.)

“Well,” said Leo, smiling confidently, “the guy in my story is a cowboy. I’ll introduce him around the ranch with about, maybe say three, four hundred feet of spectacular cowboy stuff. Damndest stuff you ever saw. You know, just to get the audience hooked. Riding, roping, wrestling a steer, out on the roundup, different seasons, snow, heat. I want to do a quick portrait of the manliest, sexiest, bravest, ballsiest son of a bitch, you could ever imagine. Right? Now,
wham
! Cut to Saturday night. In town. A little town. Arizona. Say Douglas. Okay? How do you like it so far?” He laughed and continued. “We’re in the bar. It’s a kind of a dance hall, too. But this is modern, you understand— this is
now
. Right
now
. And I’m in a full shot of the dance hall and the orchestra’s playing some kind of Dixieland stuff.” McCarey, a musician, sang a few merry bars:

“ ‘Wah dah dah
dee
dee
dee

Wah dah dah
pah
pah
pah

Tah dah dah dah
dee dee dee
…’

Like that, see? And it looks like a jolly evening and we move in with the camera and we begin to see there’re hardly any women there, for cryin’ out loud. Most of the couples are two cowboys. Get it? Cowboys dancing with cowboys. Now, this has
got
to be a terrific jolt after we’ve seen him in that cocksman introduction. Right? And there’s nothing fairy about this, mind you. It’s just that there aren’t enough dames to go around. So cowboys dance with cowboys. That’s what I used to do when
I
worked the ranch. And I don’t think anybody’s ever suspected
me
.” (Laugh.) “Well, anyway. There’s our cowboy dancing with another cowboy. And each one of them’s kind of flirting with whatever dame happens to dance by. Right? Now. In the part of the cowboy, the
main
cowboy—our lead—I see somebody like, well, I don’t know. I suppose there’re several could handle it. Could play it. Maybe—well, I don’t know. I suppose the
best
one—I mean as I think about the story, the image I get in my mind, is somebody like say—well, say—
Gary Cooper
.” He paused. Goldwyn nodded gravely. McCarey went on. “Wham! We cut to
another
dance hall but this one’s entirely different. There’s a string trio playing some kind of a waltz.” Again he sang, simulating the trio.

“ ‘Doo
doo
-doo dee
doo

Doo
doo-dee-doo
!’

And you know where we are? I’ll tell you. We’re in the ballroom of the classiest damn girls’ finishing school on the East Coast. Virginia, someplace. And what have you got? A roomful of these beautiful, uppercrusty girls. Heiresses. All of them. And they’re dancing with each other because this is their dance class, see? Girls with girls. You follow it so far? Arizona: men dancing with men. Virginia: girls dancing with girls. This is terrific, isn’t it? I mean is this a never-forget-it opening?”