“So, Bounty Law—that was NBC, right?”
“Yep. NBC.”
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long was the show?”
“Well, it was a half-hour show, so twenty-three minutes with commercials.”
“And how long did it last?”
“We started in the fall schedule of the ’59–’60 television season.”
“And when did you go off the air?”
“The middle of the ’63–’64 season.”
“Didja ever go to color?”
“Didn’t make color.”
“How’d you get the show? You come in off the street, or did the network groom you?”
“I had guested on a Tales of Wells Fargo. I played Jesse James.”
“So that’s what got their attention?”
“Yes. I still had to screen test. And I had better be fucking good. But yes.”
“Go through the details of the movies you did during your hiatus?”
“Well, the first one,” Rick says, “was Comanche Uprising, starring a very old, very ugly Robert Taylor. But that became a theme in almost all my motion pictures,” Rick explains. “Old guy paired with a young guy. Me and Robert Taylor. Me and Stewart Granger. Me and Glenn Ford. There was never just me on my own,” says the actor, frustrated. “It was always me and some old fuck.”
Marvin asks, “Who directed Comanche Uprising?”
“Bud Springsteen.”
Marvin makes an observation: “I noticed on your résumé you worked with a helluva lot of those old Republic Pictures cowboy directors—Springsteen, William Witney, Harmon Jones, John English?”
Rick laughs. “The get-it-done guys.” Then he clarifies, “But Bud Springsteen wasn’t just a get-it-done guy. Bud didn’t just get it done. Bud was different than those others.”
That interests Marvin. “What was the difference?”
“Huh?” Rick asks.
“Bud and the other get-it-done guys,” Marvin asks. “What was the difference?”
Rick doesn’t have to think about his answer, because he figured this out years ago when guesting on Whirlybirds with Craig Hill, helmed by Bud.
“Bud had the same amount of time as all the rest of those goddamn directors,” Rick says with authority. “Not one day, not one hour, not one sunset more than anybody else. But it was what he did with that time that made Bud good.” Rick says sincerely, “You were proud to work for Bud.”
Marvin likes that.
“And goddamn Wild Bill Witney gave me my start,” Rick says. “He gave me my first real part. You know, a character with a name. Then he gave me my first lead.”
“What film?” Marvin asks.
“Oh, just one of those juvenile-delinquent hot rod flicks for Republic,” Rick says.
Marvin asks, “What was the title?”
“Drag Race, No Stop,” says Rick. “And I did a goddamn Ron Ely Tarzan for him just this last year.”
Marvin laughs. “So you two go back a long way?”
“Me and Bill?” Rick says. “You bet.”
Rick’s getting into his reminiscing and he sees it’s going over well too, so he leans into it. “Let me tell ya ’bout goddamn Bill Witney. The single most underrated action director in this goddamn town. Bill Witney didn’t just direct action, he invented directing action. You said you like westerns—you know that whole Yakima Canutt action gag where he jumps from horse to horse, then falls and goes under the hooves, in John Ford’s fuckin’ Stagecoach?”
Marvin nods his head yes.
“William fuckin’ Witney did it fuckin’ first, and did it one year before John Ford, with Yakima Canutt!”
“I didn’t know that,” Marvin says. “What picture?”
“He hadn’t even made a feature yet,” Rick tells him. “He did that gag for some fuckin’ serial. Let me tell you what it is like being directed by William Witney. Bill Witney works under the assumption that there was no scene ever written that couldn’t be improved by the addition of a fistfight.”
Marvin laughs.
Rick continues, “So I’m doing a Riverboat, with Bill directing. Me and Burt Reynolds in the scene. So me and Burt are doing the scene, sayin’ the dialogue. Then Bill goes, ‘Cut, cut, cut! You guys are puttin’ me to sleep. Burt, when he says that to you, you punch him. And, Rick, when he punches you, that makes you mad, so you punch him back. Got it? Okay, action!’ And so we do it. And when we get done, he yells, ‘Cut! That’s it, boys, now we got a scene!’”
The two men laugh inside the cloud of cigarette smoke that’s filling up the office. Marvin’s starting to warm up to Rick’s sense of hard-earned Hollywood experience. “So tell me about this Stewart Granger film you mentioned?” Marvin asks.
“Big Game,” Rick says. “An African-great-white-hunter piece of crap. They were walking out of it on airplanes.”
Marvin guffaws.
Rick informs the agent, “Stewart Granger was the single biggest prick I ever worked with. And I’ve worked with Jack Lord!”
After the two men chuckle over the Jack Lord dig, Marvin asks the actor, “And you did a picture with George Cukor?”
“Yeah,” Rick says, “a real dog called The Chapman Report. Great director, terrible picture.”
The agent asks, “How did you get along with Cukor?”
“Are you kidding,” Rick asks, “George fucking loved me!” Then he leans a bit over the coffee table and says insinuatingly, in a lower voice, “I mean, really loved me.”
The agent smiles, letting the actor know he gets the insinuation.
“I think that’s a thing George does,” Rick speculates, “He picks a boy on each movie to go ga-ga over. And on that picture it was between me and Efrem Zimbalist Jr., so I guess I won.” He goes on to illustrate, “So in that picture all my scenes are with Glynis Johns. And we go to a pool. So Glynis is in a one-piece swimsuit. All you can see is legs and arms, everything else is covered up. But me, I’m in the teeny-tiniest pair of swim trunks the censors will allow. Tan swim trunks. On black-and-white film, it looks like I’m fucking naked! And it’s not just a shot of me jumping in the pool. I’m in these tiny trunks, doing big dialogue scenes with my ass hanging out, for ten minutes of the fuckin’ movie. I mean, what the fuck—am I Betty Grable over here?”
Again the two men laugh, as Marvin removes a small leather notebook from the opposite inside jacket pocket of the one containing Joseph Cotten’s gold cigarette case.
“I had a few of my satellites look up your statistics in Europe. And as they say, so far so good.” Searching for the notes in the little book, he asks out loud, “Did Bounty Law air in Europe?” He finds the page he’s looking for, then looks from the page to Rick. “Yes, it did. Good.”
Rick smiles.
Marvin looks back down at the book and says, “Where?” searching the page and finding the data he’s looking for. “Italy, good. England, good. Germany, good. No France.” But then he looks up at Rick and says as consolation, “But, yes, Belgium. So they know who you are in Italy, England, Germany, and Belgium.” Marvin concludes, “So that’s your TV show. But you’ve done a few flicks, so how did they do?”
Marvin looks back down at the little book in his hands, flipping through the little pages, searching its contents. “Actually”—finding what he’s looking for—“All three of your westerns, Comanche Uprising, Hellfire, Texas, and Tanner, did relatively well in Italy, France, and Germany.” Looking back up to Rick: “With Tanner doing even better than that in France. Can you read French?” Marvin asks Rick.
“No,” Rick answers.
“Too bad,” Marvin says as he removes a folded-up Xerox page stuck in the little notebook and hands it across the coffee table to Rick. “This is the Cahiers du Cinéma review of Tanner. It’s a good review, very well written. You should get it translated.”
Rick takes the Xerox from Marvin, nodding at the agent’s suggestion, though the actor knows full well he’ll never do t
hat.
But then Marvin raises his head to meet Rick’s eyes and says, suddenly enthusiastic, “But the best news in this whole fuckin’ book: The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey!”
Rick’s face lights up as Marvin continues, “Now, in America, that did okay for Columbia when it was released. But in Europe, Fuck me!” He lowers his head to read the information in front of him. “Says here The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey was a fuckin’ smash all over Europe. Played everywhere and played for fuckin’ ever!”
Marvin looks up, closes his little book, and concludes, “So in Europe, they know who you are. They know your TV show. But even more than the guy from Bounty Law, in Europe, you’re the cool guy with the eye patch and the flamethrower that kills a hundred and fifty Nazis in The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey.”
After making that huge statement, Marvin grinds his Kent out in the ashtray. “What was your last theatrical feature?”
Now it’s Rick’s turn to grind out his cigarette in the ashtray, as he grunts, “A horrible children’s movie made for the kiddie matinee crowd, called Salty, the Talking Sea Otter.”
Marvin smiles. “I take it you are not the title character?”
Rick smiles grimly at the agent’s joke, but nothing about that movie does he find funny.
“That was the film Universal dumped me in to finish my four-picture contract,” Rick explains. “Which just goes to show how much Universal gave a fuck about me. I remember that prick, Jennings Lang, selling me a whole bill of goods. Luring me over to Universal with a four-picture deal. I had Avco Embassy offering me a deal. National General Pictures offering me a deal. Irving Allen Productions offered me a deal. I turned them all down and went with Universal because they were the major. And because Jennings Lang told me, ‘Universal wants to be in the Rick Dalton business.’ After I signed up, I never saw that prick again.” Referring to the time Invasion of the Body Snatchers producer Walter Wanger shot Jennings Lang in the groin for fucking his wife, Joan Bennett, “If anybody deserved to get their balls shot off, it’s that prick Jennings Lang.” Adding bitterly, “Universal was never in the Rick Dalton business.”
Rick picks up his coffee cup and takes a sip. It’s gone cold. He puts it back down on the table with a sigh.
Marvin continues, “So for the last two years you’ve been doing guest shots on episodic TV shows?”
Rick nods his head in the affirmative. “Yeah, I’m doing a pilot for CBS right now, Lancer. I’m the heavy. I did a Green Hornet. A Land of the Giants. A Ron Ely Tarzan, the one I mentioned I did with William Witney. I did that show Bingo Martin with that kid Scott Brown.”
Rick doesn’t like Scott Brown, so when he mentions his name, he subconsciously gives a dismissive look. “And I just finished an FBI for Quinn Martin.”
Marvin sips his coffee, even though it’s gone a little cool. “So you’ve been doing pretty good?”
“I been working,” Rick says as if to clarify.
“Did you play the bad guy in all these shows?” Marvin asks.
“Not Land of the Giants, but the rest, yeah.”
“Did they all end in fight scenes?”
“Again, not Land of the Giants or The FBI, but the rest, yeah.”
“Now the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.” Marvin asks, “Did you lose the fight?”
“Of course,” Rick says. “I’m the heavy.”
Marvin lets out a big “ahhhhh” to make his point. “That’s an old trick pulled by the networks. Take Bingo Martin, for example. So you got a new guy like Scott Brown and you wanna build up his bona fides. So you hire a guy from a canceled show to play the heavy. Then at the end of the show, when they fight, it’s hero besting heavy.”
But then Marvin goes on to explain, “But what the audience sees is Bingo Martin whippin’ the guy from Bounty Law’s ass.”
Ouch, thinks Rick. That fuckin’ smarted.
But Marvin’s not done. “Then next week, it’s Ron Ely in his loincloth. And the week after that, it’s Bob Conrad in his tight pants kickin’ your ass.” Marvin drives his right fist into the palm of his left hand for effect. “Another coupla years playin’ punchin’ bag to every swingin’ dick new to the network,” Marvin explains, “is going to have a psychological effect on how the audience perceives you.”
The masculine humiliation of what Marvin’s suggesting, even though he’s only referring to playacting, is making Rick’s brow perspire. I’m a punching bag? Is this my career now? Losing fights to this season’s new swingin’ dick? Is that how Tris Coffin, star of 26 Men, felt when he lost his fight to me on Bounty Law? Or Kent Taylor?
While Rick dwells on this, Marvin moves on to another subject.
“Now, I’ve had at least four people tell me a story about you,” Schwarz starts, “but none of them know the whole story, so I want you to tell me.” Marvin asks, “What’s this about you almost playing the McQueen role in The Great Escape?”
Oh Christ, not this fucking story again, thinks Rick. Though completely unamused, he laughs it off for Marvin’s benefit. “It’s only a good story for the Sportsmen’s Lodge crowd.” Rick chuckles, “You know, the part you almost got. The fish that got away.”
“Those are my favorite stories,” the agent says. “Tell me.”
Rick has had to tell this shaggy-dog story so much, he’s reduced it down to its basic elements. Swallowing his resentment, Rick plays the part that’s a little out of his range: a humble actor.
“Well,” Rick begins, “apparently, at the same time that John Sturges offered McQueen the title role of Hilts, the Cooler King, in The Great Escape, Carl Foreman”—referencing the powerhouse writer-producer of The Guns of Navarone and The Bridge on the River Kwai—“was making his directorial debut with a film called The Victors, and he offered McQueen one of the lead roles, and, apparently, McQueen vacillated so much, Sturges was forced to draw up a list of possible replacements for the character. And, apparently, I was on the list.”
Marvin asks, “Who else was on the list?”
“Four names on the list,” Rick says. “Me and the three Georges: Peppard, Maharis, and Chakiris.”
“Well,” Marvin enthusiastically insists, “outta that list, I can totally see you getting it. I mean, if Paul Newman was on the list, maybe not, but the fucking Georges?”
“Well, McQueen did it.” Rick shrugs. “So what does it matter?”
“No,” Marvin insists, “it’s a good story. We can see you in the role. The Italians will love it!” Marvin Schwarz then explains to Rick Dalton how the genre film industry in Italy operates.
“McQueen won’t work with the Italians, no matter what. Fuck the fucking wops, that’s what Steve says. Tell ’em to get Bobby Darin, that’s what fucking Steve says. He’ll work for nine months in Indochina with Robert Wise but won’t work two months at Cinecittà with Guido DeFatso for any amount of money.”
If I were in Steve’s position, I wouldn’t waste my time in a shitty wop western either, Rick thinks to himself.
Marvin continues, “Dino De Laurentiis offered to buy him a villa in Florence. Italian producers offered him a half a million dollars and a new Ferrari for ten days’ work on a Gina Lollobrigida picture.” Then Marvin adds as an aside, “Not to mention the pretty-much-for-sure Lollobrigida pussy to go along with it.”
Rick and Marvin laugh. Well, that’s a different story, Rick thinks. I’d make any movie ever made if I thought I could fuck Anita Ekberg.
“But,” Marvin says, “that just makes the Italians want him more. So even though Steve always says no, and Brando always says no, and Warren Beatty always says no, the Italians keep trying. And when they can’t get ’em, they settle.”
“They settle?” Rick repeats.
Marvin illustrates further: “They want Marlon Brando; they get Burt Reynolds. They want Warren Beatty; they get George Hamilton.”
As Rick endures Marvin’s career postmortem, he can feel the burning, stinging sensation of tears starting to build behind his eyeballs.
>
Marvin, oblivious to Rick’s anguish, finishes, “I’m not saying the Italians don’t want you. I’m saying the Italians will want you. But the reason they want you is they want McQueen but they can’t get McQueen. And when they finally realize they’re not going to get McQueen, they’re gonna want a McQueen they can get. And that’s you.”
The glaring, brutal honesty of the agent’s words shock Rick Dalton as much as if Marvin had slapped him across the face as hard as he could with a dripping-wet hand.
However, from Marvin’s perspective, this is all good news. If Rick Dalton was a popular leading man in studio features, he wouldn’t be having a meeting with Marvin Schwarz.
Besides, it was Rick who asked to meet Marvin. It’s Rick who wants to extend his leading-man career in feature films rather than playing bad guy du jour on television. And it’s Marvin’s job to explain to him the realities and the possible opportunities of a film industry he doesn’t know shit about. An industry that Marvin is an acknowledged expert in. And in Marvin’s expert opinion, Rick Dalton being like one of the biggest movie stars in the whole wide world is a wonderful opportunity for an agent who places name American talent in Italian motion pictures. So he’s understandably puzzled when he notices tears running down Rick Dalton’s cheeks.
“Whatsamatter, kid?” the startled agent asks. “You cryin’?”
An upset and embarrassed Rick Dalton wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and says, “I’m sorry, Mr. Schwarz, I apologize.”
Marvin grabs a box of tissues off his desk and offers it to Rick, consoling the weepy thespian. “Sorry nothing. We all get upset every once in a while. Life is hard.”
Rick yanks out two Kleenexes from the box, with a harsh ripping sound. As macho as he can muster under the circumstances, he wipes his eyes with the tissue paper. “I’m okay now, just embarrassed. Sorry about this humiliating display.”
“Display?” Marvin snorts. “What are you talking about? We’re human people; human people cry. It’s a good thing.”
Rick finishes wiping away the wetness and puts a phony smile on his face. “See, all better. Sorry ’bout that.”
Once Upon a Time in Hollywood Page 2
