John Wayne: A Giant Shadow

by C McGivern

  Everyone in Hollywood told him he was crazy to conside r getting involved in a film that no one would pay to see. Certainly no one was prepared to fund his dream. Jack Warner, a good friend of many years told him, “I don’t think the fans want to see this kind of picture anymore Duke, forget it.” The more they tried to discourage him the more convinced he became he was right. His friends told him it was lunacy to think about using this to make his debut as a director, but nothing would budge him, his mind was made up, and he refused to be put off. This was his dream, his full-force obsession, and with or without their help he was absolutely determined to make it.

  He had first become interested in the story after visiting San Antonio where he noticed tourists behaving as though they were entering a cathedral when they walked silently over the ground where the men had died. He read the letter of appeal written by Travis during the siege and explained, “Never before, or since, have a group of individuals signed a suicide pact in the name of liberty. This story has to be told.” When he began the dogged fight to tell it he created the most lasting image of John Wayne, superstar, the image that endured and was remembered by the world as he lay dying twenty years later.

  To bring the dream to life he first had to overcome immense personal and financial problems. He had already received the first warnings about his financial status when Bo Roos had to liquidate investments. Since making Stagecoach in 1939 he had made millions of dollars which he handed straight over to Roos to invest against an uncertain future. In early 1959 he and Pilar went to New York on a shopping trip. All the bills were sent off to Roos to pay. Three months later when they were still unsettled Duke began receiving daily reminders. Eventually he called Roos, “Jesus Christ, Bo, would you please pay the bills. I look like a goddamn deadbeat!” Roos promised to take care of them straight away.

  Duke later mentioned the incident to Ward Bond who was immediately suspicious having recently heard rumors about the financier. He advised Duke to check things out and Mary was sent round to collect his investment portfolio. The files were virtually empty and when Duke met Roos several days later he asked, “Bo, exactly how much money do I have?” The answer alarmed him, “Well, not a great deal of cash. Your money’s all invested in various business ventures.”

  Duke was angry, impatient and scared, “I know that. Just tell me how much cash I could raise if I had to.” He knew Roos was stalling for time when he said it would take a few weeks to sort everything out; he lost all restraint, stood up, slammed a giant fist down on the desk and bellowed at the top of his voice, “For Chrissake, I’ve given you a fortune over the years. It’s a simple question. What the hell have you done with my money?” Roos slumped in his chair, “It’s all gone.” At the very instant he needed his millions to finance his film Roos sat telling him everything he had worked for had gone. Duke scrutinized every transaction Roos had ever made and was devastated to find he was left with just his home, some personal possessions, his production company, and some worthless properties. He stormed out of the office to call his lawyer. For a long time he couldn’t believe his money could just have disappeared, but when a group of accountants poured over the figures they could find no trace of fraud, only gross mismanagement. Duke sighed his disbelief, “I’ll be goddamned, I was sure he stole it, nobody’s stupid enough to lose that much money.”

  He had rarely given his investments a second thought, that was what he paid Roos for, but his money had ebbed away over a period of twenty years as more and more had been pumped into one disaster after another. Mary remembered, “Roos had a passion for business trips. He never bothered calling when Duke was home, but as soon as he was away on location he invented a reason to visit the set. When Duke was filming The Barbarian and the Geisha he spent a month in a Japanese hotel, having sex with local Geishas and eating in the finest restaurants, always at Duke’s expense.”

  The only investments that had made money were the ones he was personally interested in such as the cotton farm, which many years later, helped restore the lost fortune. Right then he was all but ruined and forced to accept much of the blame himself, for Roos had not been alone in his negligence. When the head of CBS Television scolded, “How the hell could you give a guy millions and not ask any questions, never follow up on him? If you take him to court it will make you look like a complete ignoramus. Just forget about it and start over,” Duke knew exactly what he had to do. And, despite feeling betrayed by a man he had trusted, he did his best to forget, to start over. The catastrophe couldn’t have come at a worse time. Because he had been unable to get any studio to finance The Alamo he had already invested as much of his private wealth into it as possible. Now he had nothing left to make the film he envisaged and he was forced back to the drawing board to consider new ways of raising capital.

  As he planned his picture he stubbornly refused to listen to the arguments against it, he remained completely focused on his vision. However, he was forced to concede ground in one important area. He’d had no intention of appearing in the film himself, except perhaps in a cameo role, he wanted to dedicate all his time to creating a perfect vehicle. But finally, to win the financial backing he needed, he had to succumb to outside demands and take a leading role himself. Potential sponsors were certain that if he starred in it, the movie was unlikely to fail drastically at the box office. Without him they foresaw a disaster that would ruin not only him but them along with him. His complete dedication to the project, in the face of overwhelming opposition, was a testament to his courage, determination and integrity. He often laughed that no studio would touch the film unless he changed the ending! He loved the ending, which he said was, “A testament to man’s courage, determination and integrity in the face of overwhelming opposition.”

  He had already spent more than fourteen years trying to get the project off the ground, refusing to let it go and never allowing it to remain just a dream. He insisted on directing it, even though he had never previously directed anything, he knew what he wanted to see on screen and, from the earliest seed being planted, he had been unable to countenance handing it over. No one else could possibly capture his vision. And of course he wanted to be a director long before he ever wanted to be an actor, from the first time he stepped inside a studio, “I was only diverted from my course for the past thirty years,” It was surprising that he chose such a monumental task for his first venture; even John Ford warned him to try something smaller to launch his new career.

  Duke had been arguing with Herbert Yates since 1945 about making The Alamo. In 1951 he’d pleaded with him and Yates had finally given him the go ahead, telling him to talk to one of the studio screenwriters. But the producer was so set in his ways that, even when he was dealing with the biggest star in the world, he could only think in terms of low budget films. He offered to finance a studio lot for shooting. Duke’s smile was dangerously sweet as he shook his head in disbelief, “I’m asking you to commit two million dollars so I can make the biggest epic ever filmed. I’m not talking about a goddam B-movie here. I’ve spent years looking for a suitable location for this film. I’ve got the perfect spot, a small settlement on the Pacific side of Panama. Looks good, realistic, authentic, and it’s cheap. Come on Herb, what do ya say?”

  Yates hated the smell of risk and he particularly disliked the idea of an expensive epic gamble directed by Duke Wayne. He might listen to him but he had no intention of letting the biggest draw in the game loose on such a hare-brained scheme or of putting any money into a film where all the heroes died. He had managed to keep his star hanging on at Republic by making promises he had no intention of keeping, and as long as he continued to make money, Yates was prepared to say anything he wanted to hear. But Duke had become increasingly impatient and difficult to handle after starting to make his own serious plans for the picture. He had been working on a screenplay with Jimmy Grant and Ford’s son, Patrick, and finally in late 1951 he began issuing contracts for set construction in Mexico. When he looked back Duke realized h
ow entirely typical of him it had been to rush headlong into things without completing all the feasibility studies, without checking what problems there might be, how entirely typical, that having lived with the obsession so long, he had been unable to wait another second to get things started once he had made his decision. How entirely typical it had been to think Yates would rush to give him money, and how typical that when the producer again prevaricated, “I’ll think about it Duke,” he had flown into the famous rage that led to the final separation from Republic.

  All the time Grant had been working on the script he was employed by the studio and, legally, the screenplay belonged to Republic and not to Duke. He now found himself forced to crawl on his hands and knees to beg for it. He offered Yates anything he wanted, but the producer, as stubborn as the star, wouldn’t give, or sell it to him at any price. He knew how badly Duke wanted the picture; here was the carrot to tempt him back. Grant, desperately trying to keep the peace between them before Duke blew a fuse and did damage to the old man, offered an amended script if he would agree to make the picture at Republic. He met a typically surly refusal; Yates had been offered the chance to share his dream on more than one occasion, now it was too late.

  The next problem was even more drastic than the loss of the screenplay. When the Sons and Daughters of the Republic of Texas, the official custodians of the Alamo, heard he was planning to film their story in Mexico a loud howl of protest went up. To make a picture about the men who bought the hallowed ground of the old mission with their blood in Mexico, of all places, was sacrilegious. They told him sharply that if he went ahead he would alienate every Texan, he would get no financial backing for his venture there and no Texan theatre would ever screen the film. They were stating the obvious and he knew he had been really stupid to think he could make it anywhere except Texas and that, whatever other difficulties he might have to face, his dream was going to cost him a lot more than he had first budgeted. Still, what they said cast a seed, “No Texan would invest any money in such a venture …” a small seed, just a grain of hope. He grasped at it and went back to the drawing board. If he shot it around San Antonio perhaps he could also finance it there… He drew up a new proposal and went to talk to Texans.

  Since the first stirrings of the idea he had been trying to sell it to the big studios. He never stopped talking about it and everyone in Hollywood was aware of his plans. By the mid-fifties he had received some offers of help, but with each of those offers had gone the double condition that he star in the picture and didn’t direct it. Duke of course was worried about aging, about audiences tiring of him as an action star, he was worried about his future and producing and directing The Alamo was to be his cure-all. He stubbornly refused the conditions because he was determined to break into other areas of the business before he was completely washed up.

  He strode forward with determination, his personal power stirring everyone up, and the air in Hollywood became laden with his plans. He believed he had to go into directing. He had survived in the business for almost thirty years and had worked tirelessly because he loved it all so much. The industry was his life blood, and whilst he never liked to be called an actor- the term embarrassed him, and he referred disparagingly to most male Hollywood stars as “faggy.” To survive in it he was willing to do anything and insisted, “My problem is I’m not a handsome man like Cary Grant. I may be able to do a few more man-woman things before it’s too late, but then what? I never want to play silly old men chasing young girls, as some stars are doing. I have to be a director; I’ve waited all these years to be one. The Alamo is where I start.”

  By the time he started building the set for the film he was fifty, and he was right, he didn’t possess the face of Cary Grant. His was a western face, sculptured by adversity, it was wrinkled, weather-beaten and hard, the bright blue eyes were narrowed by his years in the sun and deeply embedded in those wrinkles. The nose was Roman, the jaw was strong, the mouth heroic. His was a lean, tough face that reflected his years, reflected the pursuit of a dream, and showed his single-minded obsession and his unwillingness to bow to adversity.

  His was the face of Ethan Edwards, Thomas Dunson and John Stryker, characters obsessed, strong, unwilling to bend or give up, they were all John Wayne, and he was imbued with the strength and stubbornness of each. He heeded nobody and his craggy, fifty year old face was set as he shook his head, “No, I’m doing it myself,” and he repeated “No,” over and over again to every entreaty, to his sons who warned him it was too big, to his agent, lawyers, business advisers, movie executives, to everyone who pleaded with him not to do it. If he couldn’t get the support he needed in Hollywood he would have to arrange it elsewhere.

  Through the disappointments, the lack of trust and belief from every side, one person stood steadfastly at his side. Pilar heaped encouragement on him and urged, “You can do this.” In spite of their recent problems she now lent her support and strength, and actively pushed him to follow his dream. She let him know that she believed in him and told him how proud of him she felt. Things didn’t get much better than that for Duke. He loved her intensely and never noticed the massive toll The Alamo placed on their already faltering marriage.

  He had no control over his obsession. He tried to explain it to the media but the words came out wrong, “This picture is America. I hope that seeing the battle of the Alamo will remind Americans that liberty and freedom don’t come cheap. This picture, well, I guess making it has made me feel useful to my country. I think it’s important that foreign countries know about this aspect of the American struggle for freedom. I hope our present generation of Americans, our children, will get a sense of our glorious past, and appreciate the struggle our ancestors made for the precious freedoms we now enjoy-and sometimes just kind of take for granted.” If people thought he sounded like he was making a Fourth of July speech, they should have remembered he was bankrupting himself to make the film, he had committed every possession he owned to it and had destroyed long, steady relationships with Yates, Republic and many other associates as well.

  When he saw how popular Walt Disney’s Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier was, Yates planned a dirty campaign of revenge against the star who had walked out on him. He decided to make his own film about the Alamo with a huge budget on location in Texas. Neither Disney nor Yates could upset Duke who hardly bothered lifting a laconic eyebrow, “Yates tried to steal my idea, he came up with The Last Command which was a quickie. ‘Nuff said.”

  After leaving Republic to form Wayne-Fellows Productions Duke had signed the famous deal with Warner Brothers, but even though they threw money at him, they were still unwilling to put anything into The Alamo, and deliberately left any mention of his pet the project out of the lucrative contract. With no studio backing, Duke was completely on his own with it and he began making as many movies as he could, working at a frantic pace, trying to fund the picture from his own resources.

  He was still very much in demand and he rarely turned an offer down during this hectic period. Grant, meanwhile started work on a new screenplay, producing four expensive re-writes before Duke was satisfied. The cost of each one upped the final budget and forced Duke to accept that no matter how hard he worked, he would never be able to earn enough to make his vision and he began the long chase to obtain independent financing. No matter what he was working on, he never stopped pleading or begging, never gave up knocking on doors to ask for money. Every rejection felt personal but his determination intensified along the way, “I have everything I own in this picture-except my necktie. I have gambled everything, all my money, my production company, my home and my car… everything… including my soul.” And when he looked back it was with horror at the risks he had taken, and with enormous pride that he eventually brought it off.

  The financial package he put together was revolutionary. By 1956 he had fulfilled his contract with Warner Brothers and was negotiating a new deal. When they continued to ignore The Alamo, he looked at other
studios and found what he was looking for at United Artists. The contract he signed was poor, not as good as the one he already had at Warners and he got none of the concessions he might have got elsewhere… but they offered to put up $2,500,00 for his film and to distribute it. They agreed he could direct and produce it himself if he would play Davy Crockett himself. Suddenly everything was possible and he jumped at the hand they held out even though he had to agree to lower percentages on the other films he appeared in for them, “I made a bad deal for myself because I wanted to do the picture so much.”

  UA expected Batjac to invest an equal $2.5 million but he didn’t want to risk his company. He had budgeted the film at $7.5 million and needed outside investors; the more he raised independently, the less pressure there was on Batjac. At least he now had a big studio behind him which might attract other sponsors. Whilst he put the finishing touches to the financing he continued looking for suitable locations and liked what he saw in Brackettville, the sleepy little village where Yates had made The Last Command.

  Happy Shahan wrote to Duke offering to let him build his set on his 22,000 acre spread, “We argued about it until 1957. We always argued and it took me two years to convince him that this was the best place to do it.” Shahan wanted to be the general contractor and to retain ownership of the set after filming was completed. Unusually Duke had hesitated but eventually agreed to his requests. On the day the agreement was signed Shahan introduced Duke to Mexican, Chato Hernandez, who he had chosen to supervise construction. Duke asked Hernandez, “Do you think you can build the Alamo?” Hernandez replied solemnly, “Senor Wayne, can you make a movie?” Duke laughed, nodded and asked no more questions, “That’s good enough for me.”