by C McGivern
He accepted the love of his fans gratefully, demanded love from his family, put his head down and bullishly charged at life, finding it impossible to relax no matter how much others wanted him to, or how much he himself needed to. Two wives and four children had already been sacrificed at the altar of his profession and experience warned him that if he didn’t cut back on his work load now he would lose all the things he valued most. Experience meant nothing and, ultimately, the man who had a constant need to be surrounded by the love of his family was doomed to face the sad fact that he drove them away with his restless, unrelenting energy, his dedication to his craft and constant sense of economic insecurity.
He feared his fortune was on the edge of collapse and his wife got used to hearing him lament, “We’ll all be hurting if I don’t make this movie!” She also knew money wasn’t the root of his compulsion although he complained constantly about the increasing line of people who depended on the “next movie.” The line never got any shorter and he continued to struggle to ensure no Wayne or Morrison wanted for anything. But she looked at his exhausted face and suspected an imminent collapse. His stubborn refusal to listen to her warnings annoyed her and led to increasing friction at home.
For him though, the bouts of black depression were interspersed with some of the best moments a human being could have experienced. One of the best came when Pilar announced she was pregnant again. He took consolation in her news, interpreting it as a sign that life went on. John Ethan Wayne arrived on 22 February, 1962, and Duke was delighted with his new child. He even managed to smile as he sat and watched Aissa play with baby Ethan. Although the recovery was long, the vacuum left by the deaths of his friends was slowly being filled. His son’s arrival went a long way toward healing the wounds and Pilar was relieved when she heard him laughing at the baby’s antics. The knowledge that he had once again created a tiny, helpless life that depended on him, stirred up familiar urges. The need to get up on his feet and be the provider again became so strong that he couldn’t deny the call any longer. The dark times had lasted five long years but now, despite the cough, and Pilar’s serious warning, he struggled up to go back to work.
In 1962 an article by Dean Jennings appeared in the Saturday Evening Post headed, The Woes of Box Office King John Wayne, declaring, “John Wayne is finished.” Jennings painted a picture of a man washed up by life, a man with erratic and deranged notions, who had only ever been a cowboy actor, who was now doomed to continue playing such parts to support his wife and growing family. He summarized his career as a failure, saying that here was a man whose future held no beauty.
He said nothing more than Duke himself thought, but as soon as he saw the article something snapped and he found the courage to rouse himself to go in search of a beautiful future to prove the critic wrong. He had wasted enough time, worried too much about who thought what about him and his films. The time to move on had arrived and once again he used effort to turn a period of profound personal crisis into one of remarkable professional success.
He absolutely refused to be drawn into the trend of making films full of violence and sex and decided instead to continue making “John Wayne” movies. He heard people talk about him as if he was a dinosaur and was stung, but he was not extinct and said, “As long as people still pay to see my pictures I’ll continue making them the way they want them. I’ll only finish when they say, “Oh, do we have to look at that old sonofabitch again?”
And, despite the critics, a new generation of film-goers now turned onto his films, “I hope I appeal to the more carefree times in a person’s life. I’d just like to be an image that reminds someone of joy rather than the problems of the world. Luckily so far, it seems the youngsters consider me an older friend, somebody believable and down-to-earth.” He refused to lie down and die, and no matter how ill he felt after completing North to Alaska he was soon racing half way round the world to make Hatari! with Howard Hawks in Africa. Duke had accepted the offer to work with one of his favorite directors without any thought that once again he would get no rest between films.
Most of the picture was to be shot on location out on the Serengeti where, during the day temperatures soared passed one hundred degrees and at night were close to freezing. Duke had anticipated no more fun without his old friends around but he enjoyed his time in North Africa in spite of everything. He loved the vast landscape of Serengeti, as beautiful in its way as Monument Valley, “You wake up and hear the savage sounds of the animals and your hair curls.” His wife and children had gone on location with him, he got on well with the rest of the cast, and he loved Hawks who still let him do his own stunts. He was allowed to sit tied to the front of the car lassoing the wild animals himself, and he found great relief in the tough physical activity. Hawks understood perfectly what he needed, “I gave him no script and the chase scenes, the charging rhinos and the crashing jeeps in the film were shot just as they happened. Duke got himself into all sorts of real trouble and was almost tipped out of a jeep when a rhino unexpectedly rushed at it. His sense of exhilaration came across well in the picture.”
A slow recovery began in Africa but his future still troubled him. He had to accept that The Alamo was not the first stepping stone to him becoming a director. He was aging fast, felt increasingly unwell, and all around him stars of his own generation were dying or retiring; Humphrey Bogart (1957), Tyrone Power (1958), Errol Flynn (1959), Clark Gable (1960), and Gary Cooper (1961), Cagney retired and Cary Grant announced that 1962 would be his last year in films. Duke told his wife he couldn’t afford to retire or die!
He did though find enough money to finance another personal dream. John Wayne, cowboy actor, had wanted all his life to be a sailor. His love of the sea was enduring and he had, for some years, owned the 75’ Nor’wester. Now, after long coveting her, he purchased The Wild Goose, a 136’ mine sweeper. He rarely wanted or bought anything for himself, but The Wild Goose was different and the minute he heard she was for sale he snapped her up and began alterations as soon as he took possession. At sea he could take refuge from the glare of Hollywood, he felt safe to be himself, and after buying the Goose whenever he wasn’t working, he was at sea or pottering around the decks of his boat in the harbor. Most winters saw him sailing down to Acapulco and summers cruising up the coast to Alaska. The boat was his proudest possession and he loved her, but she was also another huge expense. He had to keep making films now to pay for her upkeep.
As he sailed, fished and relaxed, he took stock of his life. Lying on the decks of his new boat he began to redefine his image and plan his next moves. Before acquiring her he had been confused, worried and depressed, but somehow, dozing contentedly at the back of The Goose, his thoughts became clear, uncluttered by fear, and he finally accepted that his future was as a film star not a director. He had to look for roles that centered on the image of a strong man, a man still capable of righting wrongs, but which at the same time allowed the hero to soften and age gracefully. He began searching for fatherly or even grandfather figure parts that suited his strengths and into which he could relax. Over the last years he had become increasingly sensitive to his image, he repeatedly turned down roles that went on to be great successes, saying he would not have been right in the part. Now when called on to act opposite a woman, he shed the sexual image of his past and adopted a more mellow approach of mutual respect and affection. He knew exactly what suited him, how to play the role and he guarded the new persona jealously. Offers began to come in and his mood brightened perceptibly, “What the hell, the sun’s going to come up tomorrow morning whether I’m pissed or depressed. I’m gonna get up with it and get on with my life.”
The sixties, a time of deep depression followed by studied redefinition, turned out not to be a stultifying period leading to the death of the dinosaur, but rather, one of hyperactivity. In thirty months he starred in some of his best films including The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, Donovan’s Reef, McLintock!, Circus World and In Harm’s Way. He had worked
all through the dark years but now his performances were invested with renewed vigor. Best of all, he was even able to get revenge over the friend who had hurt him the most, Darryl Zanuck. When Zanuck started casting hundreds of soldiers and leaders for his war epic, The Longest Day, the first person he called was poor old Duke Wayne, on whom he had poured so much scorn.
Suddenly Duke found himself flavor of the month, needed to play a wonderful manly, American leader, a part he had made his own. Zanuck rang him to tell him what he had in mind and was left in no doubt about what he could do with the part and the movie too. Duke offered no reason for his rejection, and though Zanuck guessed his comments had hit him hard after The Alamo, he had no idea that he had taken them so much to heart. He tried to explain that his remarks had been misquoted, he appealed to Duke’s well-known patriotism, and told him he could choose his own part.
“No” Duke slammed the phone down.
Zanuck smiled and refused to give up, he rang straight back to offer a cameo role; he offered him anything he wanted because he needed Duke’s name to sell the picture. Zanuck was kept dangling when Duke agreed to do a cameo for a quarter of a million dollars. The producer pleaded, but for once Duke didn’t buckle, he had not had so much fun for a long time. He never expected him to agree his terms, he didn’t particularly want a part in the film, but it gave him the sweetest feeling listening to Zanuck beg. It was a shining moment when they finally agreed terms. Duke spent four days working for his money. “Poor old Zanuck,” he remarked with a huge grin, “I shouldn’t have been rotten I guess… I always liked that son of a bitch. A good chess player. A good poker player. Loves pictures. Good studio boss. My idea of the kind of guy Hollywood needs. But I was goddam mad at his attack on me. I didn’t like being pitied by him or anybody. But you know it was nice when I got over there on location, old Zanuck was decent to me. He was so pleasant I kinda wished I hadn’t charged him so much money. It has to be the most expensive interview a movie producer ever gave. Should teach us all to keep our mouths shut more often. What the hell I needed the money, and I didn’t think Zanuck would give me the quarter of a mil… served the bastard right.”
He still needed money badly, but Paramount was about to come to the rescue, offering him $600,000 a movie for ten pictures, with a six million dollar lump sum in advance, an irresistible package to a man with a fortune to recover. Slowly but surely he was climbing out of trouble and now, through sheer hard work, he began to amass a new fortune. As he approached his sixties he was working harder than ever, and was about to pay a heavy price.
All his next films saw him away on distant locations, in Africa, Alaska, Hawaii for Donovan’s Reef, Utah for The Man who Shot Liberty Valance, Arizona and Mexico for The Commancheros and McLintock!, and Spain for Circus World. The shadow of cancer hung over him but, as he travelled the world, he never suspected he was dying on his feet. He felt ill and was troubled by the nagging cough that gave him no rest, but nothing could stop him working, “He labored with the perseverance of an animal in a yoke,” Zolotow wrote in his biography.
He had made promises which he would not break, had signed the massive deal with Paramount, he still had debts to repay, and running the Wild Goose was costing a small fortune. He never mentioned what he considered to be minor aches and pains, and very few people knew how much effort he was putting into each day. Pilar commented, “He’s very good because you don’t know he’s in pain. Like when he fell off a horse and the next week he said, “I think I’d better see a doctor because I’ve been aching for seven days,” Then you realize he’s been in pain and said nothing about it, he had broken two ribs, and it was murder getting on and off a horse, but he never let on. He doesn’t let much bother him, and he would never let a thing like bust ribs keep him out of a film. My husband may not be a boy anymore but he thinks he is, and he acts like one. He’s so active. He doesn’t waste a minute of the day. He won’t stop for a moment.”
Still, despite his refusal to moan, she began to fear something was seriously wrong. His cough was getting worse and his voice sounded raw and ugly. She noticed during his brief visits home that he was obviously uncomfortable and quieter than normal. On location he concentrated on his work but offered little of his usual humor. Only out at sea did his family catch occasional glimpses of the husband and father they had known and loved. There he was able to relax and was more willing to talk and to listen to their concerns.
Pilar was worried about him but John Ford required his services again. He had been planning The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance for some time and was determined to have Duke working on it. By that time the star’s fee was far higher than Ford wanted to pay, he constantly niggled him until he gave in and agreed to play the part of Tom Doniphon at a reduced rate. Duke sensed that Ford was angry with him about something and the old man had taken it into his head that he was trying to avoid him. Duke wrote, trying to clear the air, “I don’t know who you heard over the phone when you called my home, but it was certainly not I... I talk to every Tom, Dick and Harry who calls. I certainly would not be too tired to talk to a man whom I consider my best friend-that I have a feeling of blood kinship with.” The letter didn’t fix things and Ford had remained distant. In the end Duke felt he had to accept the part to put their relationship back into some kind of order. Ford’s grandson, Dan, said, “My grandfather continued to direct Duke’s life.”
As Duke slowly emerged from his period of depression, Ford was sinking into the vacant hole he left behind. He wanted to shoot the film in a murky black and white to give it a dark, old fashioned look and feel, that reflected his own mood. He had lost his belief in the value of community, he no longer felt like celebrating civilization or American values. Initially, when he first broached the subject with Duke, he was full of enthusiasm and fire but he lost interest in the film almost as soon as shooting began. His mood made life difficult for all the actors involved but he was especially tough on the favorite son who found himself in the direct firing line again. He was particularly nasty with him, despite having pestered him to join the cast, and Duke was furious for allowing himself to get roped in. Onlookers felt Ford pushed him to the brink of ending their relationship on the set of Liberty Valance. Perhaps if he had not still been feeling so raw he would have ignored the director as he normally did, instead he became surly and aggressive himself. Fortunately James Stewart, one of Duke’s closest friends, was the other star of the picture, and he afforded Duke some moments of light relief. He said, “John Wayne was probably the biggest star in the world, yet he retained the qualities of a small boy. He had an enthusiasm for life that would make a high school football star envious. And he never changed. As a man he was exactly the boy he started out. And as a friend… well, you just wouldn’t want a better one, once a friend, always your friend.” That friendship was now heavily leaned on and Duke even managed to raise a laugh when, near the end of filming, Ford turned on Stewart for the first time. He threw over his shoulder, as he made good his own escape, “You thought you were going to make it through, didn’t you! Ha, ha.”
Much of the filming was completed on a sound stage in 1961, “It was a tough assignment for me because dammit, Ford had Jimmy for the shit-kicking humor, O’Brien playing the sophisticated humor, and he had the heavy, Marvin. Christ there was no place for me. I just had to wander around in that son of a bitch and try and make a part for myself. And he let me too. I mean he just, goddammit, he forgot I was around. He made it kind of rough on me. I never thought it was a case of whether Doniphon belonged any longer… I didn’t take it at all that Ford was saying there’s no place for that type of character. I don’t think Jack meant it as such either. And in the long run the girl would have had a more pleasant life with Jimmy. She’d probably have been happier if she’d married me though… .more exciting say. I’m probably more optimistic about Doniphon’s character than other people were, I didn’t think he was alienated. I think that the character really wasn’t a well-rounded, developed character. He
was good as a tool for a certain time.”
He found Tom Doniphon uncomfortable to play and Ford’s behavior didn’t help. All the cast were in awe of him, he terrified some, and was hard on all of them, but actor Ken Murray confirmed, “Working on the film became a misery for Duke.” Many felt it was Ford’s way of getting back at him for not using him on The Alamo, others believed he was jealous of Duke’s increasing success compared to his own sudden decline. Once he started shouting at Duke about one thing, he carried on throwing an endless stream of venom at him. Even in 1961 he continued to bring up his failure to enlist, and reminded him over and over again that both Stewart and Woody Strode, had both been real war heroes. Duke, highly embarrassed, deeply hurt and offended, rarely spoke on set.
He also lost his temper easily and at one point almost came to blows with Strode, not the real target of his anger, after he nearly lost control of a team of racing horses. Strode said, “Duke couldn’t get the horses to stop but when I tried to help he pushed me away.” Duke eventually fell off the wagon. He was unhurt and Strode had been eager to trade punches with him, mad that he had endangered both their lives. Ford, witnessing the incident, finally realized how badly he had stirred Duke up. He was well aware that his best boy wouldn’t retaliate against him, but it was equally obvious that he was taking his spleen out on everyone else. When, many years later, Duke was still complaining about the treatment he got on the film, Mary St John attempted to comfort him, venturing hesitantly that Doniphon was full of ambiguity. He snapped back, “Screw ambiguity… I don’t like ambiguity. I don’t trust ambiguity.”
Many film reviewers felt the same way, though over the years the picture grew in stature until it was eventually accepted as a masterpiece, representing Ford at the apex of his career. He and John Wayne had made some remarkable films together, shared many adventures and much fun, they had also taken many a knock along the way. By the time they teamed up for Liberty Valance they had almost reached the end of the road, and Ford’s lament, the last western they made together, was the conclusion to a spectacular association. Eventually, despite the tension that existed between them throughout the sixties, Duke accepted that what they achieved had been remarkable, “We had great days. I generally don’t look back, but it’s pretty hard not to when there were guys like Ward and Jack around. You don’t meet them everyday.” Duke didn’t like to look back. He wanted to move on but, as so often in the past, his periods of depression coincided with those suffered by Ford, and certainly whilst working on Liberty Valance he sank again, his mood once again affected by that of the director. Neither was left untouched by the changes occurring in Hollywood, changes that now sent them down different paths. Ford was about to give up, John Wayne was going to fight on and leave his mentor far behind.
