All That Heaven Allows

by Mark Griffin

  Unlike some of Hudson’s other partners, Jack Coates seems to have been universally loved, both by the staff at The Castle and Hudson’s longtime friends. “When I hear the name Jack Coates all I can do is smile,” says Rock’s friend Ken Jillson. “I mean, he was just a super charmer. Very sporty. Very masculine. A sparkling personality. And he just radiated sex from the moment you met him.”

  For a period of several years, Coates would spend Thursday evening through Monday morning with the movie star in Beverly Hills, while the rest of the time he was just another coed wandering around campus. “Jack couldn’t quite decide on a degree,” Cathy Hamblin says. “So, he ended up pursuing two degrees, which he never really used. He just had a lot of fun.”

  During the years that Coates was living with Hudson, Cathy Hamblin says that Rock became very close to her parents: “He came to dinner at our house a number of times. My mom would make a ton of chicken fried steak. That was the main meal for Mr. Rock Hudson. He came with his maid, Joy, who got rip-roaring drunk with my mother. Which was often the way it was when I stayed at Rock’s house. Joy would have what were called ‘eating days’ and ‘drinking days’ and she didn’t mix the two. On the eating days, we would all eat really well. On the drinking days, Rock would come home from work, see the condition Joy was in and say to us, ‘Well, let’s go to the Polo Lounge . . .’ because he knew there wasn’t going to be any dinner.”

  * * *

  While it was totally out of character for Hudson to pursue a project that he hadn’t been considered for, everything about Ice Station Zebra felt epic. This extravagantly budgeted espionage thriller would be shot in Cinerama, Super Panavision, and Metrocolor.

  Alistair MacLean’s bestselling novel followed the commander and crew of an atomic submarine as they attempt to rescue a meteorological team trapped in a remote weather station on the polar ice cap. Upon reaching the North Pole, the commander finds himself embroiled in an international incident involving a Soviet satellite. In adapting MacLean’s nail-biter, MGM would spare no expense in terms of assembling a first-rate cast—which Rock Hudson couldn’t help but notice didn’t include him.

  At first, several trade publications announced that Gregory Peck and David Niven, successfully teamed in The Guns of Navarone (based on another MacLean novel) would be reunited for Ice Station Zebra. John Sturges, who had turned The Magnificent Seven and The Great Escape into major hits, was signed to direct. Oscar-winner Paddy Chayefsky was hired to write the screenplay.

  It should have been full steam ahead but instead, it was trouble at every turn. After reading Chayefsky’s screenplay, Sturges was dumbfounded. Not only was a dramatically compelling third act missing but, worse, the character that Peck was slated to play had morphed from a cynical American agent into a double agent working for the Communists. “I have no objection to playing a Communist,” Gregory Peck announced. “I’ve played an anti-Semite, an alcoholic, and Captain Ahab. But this is preposterous . . . I won’t do it.”

  Peck wasn’t the only one balking. The Department of Defense was threatening to withdraw its assistance to the producers, objecting to the way military life was depicted in several scenes in Chayefsky’s screenplay, most notably a sequence in which a pornographic film was screened for officers aboard a submarine. The National Security Agency insisted that such an occurrence—involving enlisted men—was utterly inconceivable.

  Director Sturges decided to start from scratch. A pair of new screenwriters were hired and warned not to follow Chayefsky’s example—they went in the other direction. “A bunch of claptrap, patriotic bullshit” is how Sturges appraised their efforts. Another writer was brought on board for yet another rewrite. While the script was being overhauled, Gregory Peck, David Niven, George Segal, and other cast members bailed, citing scheduling conflicts.

  With Seconds and four flop comedies casting doubts about his bankability, Rock Hudson’s survival instincts kicked in. He desperately needed a hit. After being nudged by Tom Clark, Hudson made the unusual move of contacting producer Martin Ransohoff directly: “Marty, I’d like to be in Ice Station Zebra . . .” As uncomfortable as it was for Hudson, shooting from the hip worked. In February of 1967, the trades announced that Hudson had been cast as James Ferraday, commander of the USS Tigerfish.

  It may have been the lead, but Hudson’s role didn’t present much of an acting challenge. When Charlton Heston had passed on playing Commander Ferraday, he had correctly observed that the part, while pivotal, wasn’t a fully realized character. Rock’s costars, Ernest Borgnine, Patrick McGoohan, and Jim Brown had the showier roles, the more memorable dialogue.

  For a young actor named William Hillman, Zebra was a challenging experience. He waited hours to audition for director John Sturges, whom he remembered as “stern” and “kind of into himself.” Then, after it was decided that the picture didn’t require any comedic relief, virtually all of Hillman’s scenes were excised from the release print. In the midst of all this drama, there was one bright spot—Rock Hudson, whom Hillman says not only “had a heart of gold” but was as heroic off-screen as on:

  “We had shot until three o’clock in the morning and then I had to schlep out to the parking lot when everybody’s gone. I had a Mustang convertible and somebody had slit all of my tires. I’m standing there, staring at my car with four flat tires and out of the blue, comes this Cadillac and it roars through the lot. The driver sees me, pulls over next to me. It’s Hudson. And he says, ‘What happened?’ I tell him. He says, ‘Stay right where you are. I’ll be back.’ I thought he was going to come back and give me a lift but instead, he drives off. I’m thinking, ‘Oh, great, this movie star left me cold out here in the middle of the bloody lot.’ About twenty minutes later, a truck pulls in and it has four brand new tires on it. This truck driver gets out and starts changing my tires. I said, ‘What are you doing? I can’t afford this . . .’ And he said, ‘It’s all paid for, buddy.’ Hudson bought me four tires, had them put on, asked the driver to bring a two-way ham radio so that I could talk to my wife—who was pregnant—and let her know that I was okay. That’s the kind of guy Rock Hudson was.”

  The premiere of Ice Station Zebra, held at Hollywood’s Cinerama Dome, should have been a celebratory occasion for Hudson, but it proved to be memorable for all the wrong reasons. “It was the last premiere he ever attended because they chanted ‘faggot!’ as he went up the red carpet,” Mark Miller recalled. Ice Station Zebra went into wide release in the fall of 1968. In terms of the critical consensus, there was none; the reviews ran the gamut. While the New York Times summed it up as, “Another good, man’s action movie to eat popcorn by,” The New Yorker’s Pauline Kael was less impressed: “It’s terrible in such a familiar way that at some level it’s pleasant. We learn to settle for so little, we moviegoers.”

  One moviegoer not only settled but developed a full-scale obsession with Ice Station Zebra. While holed up in the penthouse of the Desert Inn in Las Vegas, reclusive billionaire Howard Hughes would phone television station KLAS—which he owned—and order them to air Zebra. Over and over again. Usually in the wee hours of the morning. At one point, per Hughes’s instructions, the station was broadcasting the movie on a daily basis.

  “IT TAKES A fine pair to do it like it’s never been done before!” read the advertising copy for Rock’s next picture, A Fine Pair. The provocative slogan appeared above an image of a masked Hudson, his arms enfolding a masked Claudia Cardinale. Were they lovers sharing a stolen moment or terrorists preparing to hijack the next plane out of Zurich?

  If the promotional campaign for A Fine Pair reeked of exploitation, the producers* were willing to do whatever it took to recoup their $2 million investment. Taking note of the dismal response to preview screenings, National General Pictures (known for such dubious fare as Tarzan’s Jungle Rebellion) decided to promote Rock’s latest not as a lighthearted follow-up to Blindfold but as a kinky combination of Bonnie and Clyde and I Am Curious (Yellow). At least in script form, the orig
inal story had seemed promising:

  New York City police captain Mike Harmon is lured into a globe-trotting adventure by Esmeralda Marini, an Italian beauty who claims that she was an unwitting accomplice in a jewel heist. As Esmeralda’s late father was an old friend, Harmon agrees to accompany her to Austria, with the intention of returning the stolen jewels to the luxurious Fairchild Estate. Once there, Esmeralda turns the tables—not only making Harmon her lover but also her partner in crime.

  Though Tom Clark dutifully pointed out the many plot holes in the story, Rock seemed unfazed. A Fine Pair would not only re-team him with Claudia Cardinale, whom he adored, but the production also offered what was essentially a working vacation. “We worked in Rome, in New York, in Salzburg, in Paris,” recalls Cardinale. “I mean, going around the world with Rock Hudson by your side, what could be more fantastic?”

  Though shooting began in the fall of 1967, A Fine Pair wouldn’t reach American movie screens until 1969, when it was relegated to the bottom half of a double bill, screening after the Elvis Presley Western Charro! After reading the reviews, Rock may have wished that his film had been permanently, rather than temporarily, shelved. In the New York Times, Roger Greenspun dismissed A Fine Pair as “a soggy caper twist . . . Rock Hudson appears forced, fragile and strangely listless in his role. While nothing in A Fine Pair is at any moment very clear, everything is at all times deadeningly familiar.”

  “WHY DON’T YOU hold your gun like that for the close shot?”

  It was only the first day of principal photography on The Undefeated and already Rock was starting to think that John Wayne’s constant suggestions were sounding an awful lot like commands. Although Andrew V. McLaglen was occupying the director’s chair, there was no question that it was “The Duke” who was in charge. The fact that Hudson had over fifty films to his credit didn’t seem to matter much. To Wayne—whose career stretched back to the silent era and included over a hundred movies—Rock Hudson was still the new kid on the block. And apparently, he needed all the help he could get.

  “Why don’t you turn your head this way?” Wayne asked Hudson. “That way your reaction isn’t lost.”

  After shooting had wrapped for the day, Hudson had a sinking feeling: “I started thinking, am I going to be directed by this guy? Is he trying to establish dominance or something?” Before Wayne started giving him line readings, Rock decided that the Ringo Kid needed to be put in his place. With all due respect, of course.

  The next day, Hudson turned the tables. “Duke, why don’t you move over here when you finish speaking?” he asked Wayne while they were setting up a two shot.

  Recognizing this as the payback that it was, Wayne pointed his finger at Hudson: “I like you.” And from that day forward, there weren’t quite so many “suggestions.” Only an unspoken mutual respect between two hardworking professionals.

  As a boy, Roy Scherer, Jr. of Winnetka had watched John Wayne single-handedly tame the Wild West during Saturday matinees at the Teatro del Lago. Now he was sharing the screen with one of his boyhood idols. This was both exciting and unnerving. Exciting—as Rock was appearing alongside an actor many considered to be the greatest movie star of them all. Unnerving—as Wayne was the prototypical male against whom all others were measured.

  “You’re soft! Won’t anything make a man out of you?” Wayne’s cattle rancher snarls at Montgomery Clift in Red River. It was essentially the same message that Hudson had received upon his arrival in Hollywood. As if keeping his sexual identity concealed behind a straight-acting façade wasn’t bad enough, directors like Raoul Walsh and Anthony Mann had done their best to toughen him up and turn him into Universal’s answer to John Wayne. Fortunately, Rock’s innate gentleness and unassuming personality had defied these attempts.

  In some ways, the two men couldn’t have been more different, but to the company’s collective surprise, Hudson and Wayne bonded. Between takes, they could be found playing chess; after shooting wrapped for the day, Wayne would invite Hudson to join one of his epic bridge games. When Rock retired for the evening, he took a member of the Los Angeles Rams to bed with him. Even this Wayne took in stride. “What Rock does in the privacy of his own room is his business. I don’t care what they say; I think Rock’s a hell of a guy.” Later, when the subject of Hudson’s sexuality was broached with Wayne, he reportedly shrugged it off. “It never bothered me. Life’s too short. Who the hell cares if he’s queer? The man plays great chess.”

  In their only screen teaming, both stars are trapped in an uninspired, by-the-numbers Western. A post–Civil War story about a Union officer (Wayne) joining forces with a Confederate colonel (Hudson) to battle Mexican bandits, The Undefeated had been kicking around Hollywood for years. As far back as 1961, there had been plans to bring Stanley L. Hough’s original story to the screen. It had first been conceived as a vehicle for Hugh O’Brian—television’s Wyatt Earp and Rock’s old Universal rival. When O’Brian’s Undefeated fell apart, a succession of studios and directors attempted but failed to revive the property with other actors attached.

  By 1968, the project had finally landed at 20th Century-Fox. When John Wayne and Rock Hudson were signed within months of each other, this was considered a major casting coup. Having snared two of the most bankable stars in the business, Fox was virtually guaranteed a blockbuster, which the studio needed to recover the film’s then impressive $7 million cost. The hefty price tag came as a result of Rock’s salary, location shooting in Durango, Mexico, and an ambitious sequence that involved a stampede of 3,000 horses.

  Though popular with fans of both stars, The Undefeated wasn’t the smash that Fox had hoped for—that was Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, released the month before. If studio accountants were surprised that the film was something of a disappointment, critics were not, especially given the fact that the film is directed, edited, and scored as though it were a TV movie of the week. There is a stilted, flat quality to most of the performances, and midway through the movie grinds to a halt to make way for an epic brawl.

  For his part, Hudson manages to look good, even in Confederate gray and muttonchops. He also gets to deliver the film’s best line. After taking a slug from a bottle, he quips, “If I can find the time, I’m gonna sit down and write the social history of bourbon.”

  Variety lamented the fact that although all of the necessary elements for a classic Western had been assembled, the end results were no better than “a rerun of the late, late show . . . neither Wayne nor Hudson seems to know whether they are in a light comedy or a serious drama. They are simply unbelievable.”

  “ONE OF THE most physically exhausting films I’ve ever done” is how Rock would describe Hornet’s Nest. Set in Nazi-occupied Italy during World War II, the story focused on Captain Turner, an American demolitions expert on a mission to blow up the Della Norte Dam.

  When Turner and his fellow army officers parachute into the village of Reanoto, they are ambushed by the Germans. Turner survives, though he is badly injured. A gang of young boys rescues the captain. They take him back to the enormous cave they’ve all been hiding out in since the Nazis slaughtered their parents. Aldo, the tough-talking leader of the orphans, tricks a German doctor named Bianca into returning to the hideout and caring for Turner. Once the captain has fully recovered, the boys demand that he teach them how to operate the ammunition that they have stockpiled. Their plan is to retaliate against the Nazis. Turner agrees but only under the condition that the pint-sized renegades help him destroy the dam.

  Originally titled Children at Their Games, S. S. Schweitzer’s story had made the rounds of all of the studios since the early 1960s. By the end of the decade, director Phil Karlson finally received a green light from United Artists to bring it to the screen, with Rock Hudson and Sophia Loren set to star. Shortly before production began, Loren withdrew from the project and she was replaced by Sylva Koscina, a Yugoslavian actress best known for the muscle-bound Steve Reeves epic Hercules. If Loren’s name carried
considerable clout at the box office, Koscina’s did not. Hornet’s Nest would now be riding on Hudson’s name alone.

  Cameras started rolling in May of 1969 in Northern Italy’s Po Valley. As the four-month shoot wore on, the heat became oppressive as did the physical demands of Hudson’s role. The character of the heroic paratrooper had been envisioned as an athletic twenty-five-year-old. Rock, now a slightly paunchy forty-four, was accustomed to puffing his way through three packs a day. At various points in the story, he would be required to scale walls, swim furiously, and drive a jeep with one hand while tossing grenades over his shoulder with the other.

  According to Hudson’s friend, Marty Flaherty, for the first and presumably only time in his career, Rock resorted to taking “whites”—better known as amphetamines—to enhance his performance. Popping a few uppers would help propel him through what was essentially a daily endurance test. The drugs would also help him keep pace with a largely prepubescent supporting cast.

  Director Phil Karlson and producer Stanley Kanter had auditioned over 250 boys to fill the seventeen children’s roles in the movie. One of their most important finds proved to be fourteen-year-old Mark Colleano,* who was cast as Aldo, the combative gang leader. Rock would describe Colleano as a “great natural talent” and confided to friends that the young actor was “stealing the picture right under my nose.”

  Colleano remembers that when he shot his first scene—which Hudson didn’t appear in—Rock still made a point of being there to demonstrate his support. “I heard he was very impressed and that was really a tremendous compliment for me and encouraged me to work even harder,” Colleano says. “Rock couldn’t have been more generous . . . he always gave of his time, he rehearsed if you wanted to rehearse . . . I remember we had this very tense, dramatic scene where we’re literally nose to nose. He looks up from tying his shoe and I get right in his face and say, ‘You’re not going anywhere because I’ve got the detonators hidden . . .’ When he looked up at me, I started to laugh. The moment Rock saw that he just stopped me dead. He said, ‘Don’t do that!’ in this very powerful voice. That kind of shocked me because we were friends and he had always been so nice. So in all the takes after that, I was very serious. Looking back, he was trying to kill the giggles and boy, he succeeded.”