The 50s

by The New Yorker Magazine

  “Thoreau said most of us lead lives of quiet desperation,” Freed said quickly. “Pictures should make you feel better, not worse.”

  Again Mayer did not seem to hear. “The Red Badge of Courage,” he said. “A million and a half. Maybe more. What for? There’s no story. I was against it. They wanted to make it. I don’t say no. John Huston. He was going to do Quo Vadis. What he wanted to do to the picture! No heart. His idea was he’d throw the Christians to the lions. That’s all. I begged him to change his ideas. I got down on my hands and knees to him. I sang ‘Mammy’ to him. I showed him the meaning of heart. I crawled to him on hands and knees. ‘Ma-a-ammy!’ With tears. No! No heart! He thanked me for taking him off the picture. Now he wants The Red Badge of Courage. Dore Schary wants it. All right. I’ll watch. I don’t say no, but I wouldn’t make that picture with Sam Goldwyn’s money.”

  · · ·

  The administrative headquarters for the M-G-M studio is a U-shaped white concrete building identified, in metal letters, as the Irving Thalberg Building. The steps leading to the Thalberg Building, between broad, shrub-bordered lawns, are wide and smooth, and they shone whitely under the midsummer sun, as cool and as stately as the steps to the Capitol in Washington, as I headed for them one morning. A taxi drew over to the curb and jerked to a halt. The door opened and Huston leaped out. He plunged a hand into a trouser pocket, handed the driver a wadded bill, and rushed toward the steps. He had stayed in town the night before, he said, at one of his three places—a small house in Beverly Hills he rented from Paulette Goddard—and he had expected his secretary to telephone him and wake him up. She had not telephoned, and he had overslept. He seemed angry and tense. “Audie’s waiting for me,” he said irritably.

  We went into a large reception room with gray-checkered linoleum on the floor, and Huston strode across it, nodding to a young man seated at a semicircular desk between two doors. “Good morning, Mr. Huston,” the young man said brightly. At once, the catches on both doors started clicking, and Huston opened the one on the right. I hurried after him, down a linoleum-floored corridor, whose cream-colored walls were lined with cream-colored doors. On each door was a slot holding a white card with a name printed on it. At the end of the corridor, we turned to the right, down another corridor, and at the end of that we came to a door with his name on it, engraved in black letters on a brass plate. Huston opened it, and a young lady with curly black hair, seated at a desk facing the door, looked up as we came in. Huston turned immediately to a bench adjoining the entrance. Audie Murphy was sitting on it. He stood up.

  “Hello, Audie. How are you, Audie?” Huston said gently, as though speaking to a frightened child. The two men shook hands. “Well, we made it, kid,” Huston said, and forced an outburst of ho-ho-hos.

  Murphy gave him a wan smile and said nothing. A slight young man with a small, freckled face, long, wavy reddish-brown hair, and large, cool gray eyes, he was wearing tan twill frontier riding pants, a matching shirt, open at the collar, and Western boots with pointed toes and high heels.

  “Come in, Audie,” Huston said, opening the door to an inner office.

  “Good morning,” the secretary behind him said. “Publicity wants to know what do you do when you hit a snag in writing a script?”

  “Tell publicity I’m not here,” Huston said in a tone of cold reproach. Then, his voice gentle again, he said, “Come in, Audie.”

  Huston’s office had oak-panelled walls, a blue carpet, and three windows reaching from the ceiling to the floor. There was a long mahogany desk at one end of the room, and at the opposite end, facing it, was a blue leather couch. Several blue leather armchairs were scattered around the office.

  “Sit down, guys,” Huston said, and himself sat down behind the desk, in a swivel chair with a blue leather seat. “Well,” he said, clenching his hands and resting his chin on them. He swung from side to side in his chair a few times, then leaned back and put his feet on the desk on top of a stack of papers.

  Murphy sat down in an armchair facing one of the windows and ran a forefinger across his lower lip. “I’ve got a sore lip,” he said. “ ‘Bout six this morning, I went riding on my colt. I went riding without my hat, and the sun burned my lip all up.” He spoke with a delicate plaintiveness, in the nasal, twangy drawl of a Texan.

  “I’ve got the same thing, kid,” Huston said, pursing his lips. “Tell you what, Audie. Bring your colt out to my ranch. You can have your colt right there with you, any time you want to ride while we’re making the picture.”

  Murphy fingered his sore lip, as if trying to determine whether Huston’s pleasant offer did anything for his affliction. Apparently it didn’t, so he looked sadly out the window.

  “We’ll do a lot of riding together, kid,” Huston said. “That’s good riding country there in the hills, you know.”

  Murphy made a small, sighing noise of assent.

  “I want you to hear this, Audie,” Huston said, nervously unfolding a sheet of paper he had taken from his jacket. “Some new lines I just wrote for the script.” He read several lines, then laughed appreciatively.

  Murphy made another small noise of assent.

  Huston continued to laugh, but his eyes, fastened on Murphy, were sombre. He seemed baffled and worried by Murphy’s unresponsiveness, because usually actors were quick to respond to him. He took his feet down from his desk and picked up a slip of blue paper one heel had been resting on. “Inter-office Communication,” he read aloud, and glanced quickly at Murphy to get his attention. “To Messrs. Gottfried Reinhardt, John Huston…subject: Hair for red badge of courage Production. As per discussion this morning, we are proceeding with the manufacture of: 50 Hook-on Beards at $3.50 each, 100 Crepe wool Mustaches at 50c each, 100 Crepe wool Falls at $2.50 each—for Production No. 1512—RED BADGE OF COURAGE. These will be manufactured in the Makeup Department.”

  Huston stopped reading, looked at Murphy, and saw that he had already lost his attention. “Well, now,” Huston said, “let’s go get some breakfast. I haven’t had any breakfast yet.”

  The door opened, and a stoop-shouldered young man with enormous, eager-looking eyes came in. He was introduced as Albert Band, Huston’s assistant. Huston moved toward the door.

  “Where you going?” Band asked, blinking his eyes. His eyelashes descended over his eyes like two dust mops.

  “Breakfast,” said Huston.

  Band said that he had had his breakfast, but he would come along and watch Huston have his.

  We went out a side door to the studio gates, where a policeman in a stone hut looked carefully at each of us as we filed through. “Mr. Huston,” he said.

  “Good morning,” Huston said, giving full weight to each syllable.

  We went down a narrow street between low, gray-painted buildings of wood or stucco, which had shingles identifying them as “Men’s Wardrobe,” “International Department,” “Casting Office,” “Accounting Department,” and “Danger 2300 Volts.” Farther along the street were the sound stages, gray, hangarlike buildings. We passed a number of costumed actors and actresses, and people in casual summer dress who exchanged nods with Huston and looked piercingly at Murphy, Band, and me.

  A portly gentleman in a gray pinstriped suit stopped Huston and shook hands with him. “Congratulate me,” he said. “My picture opens next week in New York.”

  “Music Hall?” Huston asked.

  “I have news for you,” the man said in a dry tone. “Dore Schary personally produces a picture, it gets into the Music Hall. I got Loew’s State.”

  · · ·

  Back in the Thalberg Building, Huston invited Murphy and me to see a number of test shots he had made on his ranch for The Red Badge of Courage. He had seen the tests and, with Reinhardt and Schary, had made the final decisions on the leading players in the cast. In addition to Audie Murphy as the Youth, there would be Bill Mauldin as the Loud Soldier, John Dierkes as the Tall Soldier, and Royal Dano as the Tattered Man. We trooped downstairs to a
carpeted lounge in the basement and went into a projection room that contained two rows of heavy, deep leather armchairs. Beside the arm of one of the center chairs was a board holding a telephone and a mechanism called a “fader,” which controls the volume of sound. The first shot showed the Youth, who had returned to his regiment after running away from battle, having his head bandaged by his friend, the Loud Soldier. Mauldin, dressed in Union blue, his ears protruding horizontally from under a kepi, said as he bound a kerchief around Murphy’s head, “Yeh look like th’ devil, but I bet yeh feel better.”

  In the audience, Murphy said in a loud whisper, “I was biting my cheek so hard trying to keep from laughing.”

  “Yes, Audie,” said Huston.

  The next scene showed Murphy carrying a gun and urging some soldiers behind him to come on. “Let’s show them Rebs what we’re made of!” Murphy called fiercely, on the screen. “Come on! All we got to do is cross this here field! Who’s with me? Come on! Come on!” Murphy advanced, and Huston’s voice came on the sound track, laughing and saying, “Very good.”

  “I was biting my cheek so hard my whole cheek was sore,” Murphy said.

  “Yes, Audie,” Huston said.

  Next there was a scene between Murphy and the Tall Soldier, played by John Dierkes. The Tall Soldier died, his breath rasping and then ceasing, and his hair blowing long and wild. The Youth wept.

  The lights came on. “We’re going to be just fine,” Huston said.

  Back in his office, where we found Band waiting for us, Huston, taking another cigarette, said that Dierkes would be just wonderful in the picture.

  “Just great,” said Band.

  Murphy was back in his armchair, staring out the window as though lost in a distant dream. Huston gave him a sharp glance, then sighed and put his long legs up on the desk. “Well, now, Audie, we’re going to have such fun making this picture on my ranch!” he said. “Let me tell you kids all about the ranch.” There was a compelling promise in his tone. He waited while Murphy shifted his gaze from the window to him. Huston deliberately took his time. He drew on his cigarette, and blew the smoke away. He began by telling us that he had four hundred and eighty acres—rolling fields, pasture, a brook, and hills harboring mountain lions and jaguars. He had paddocks and stables for his horses, a pen for eight Weimaraner puppies, doghouses for the Weimaraner parents and three other dogs (including a white German shepherd named Paulette, after Paulette Goddard), and a three-room shack for himself, his adopted son Pablo, and a young man named Eduardo, who managed the ranch. Huston’s wife, the former Ricki Soma, and their infant son lived at Malibu Beach, and Huston commuted between the two establishments. At the ranch, Huston had a cowboy named Dusty, and, with a good deal of laughter, he described Dusty’s gaunt and leathery face and his big, black ten-gallon hat. “Oh, God!” he said, with a shake of his head, “Dusty wants to be in the picture.” He coughed out a series of jovial ho-ho-hos. Murphy, who had given him a quiet smile, developed the smile into hollow-sounding laughter. Huston seemed satisfied that he had finally got a response out of Murphy.

  The door opened and Reinhardt stood there, an expression of cynical bewilderment on his face, a large cigar between his lips.

  “Come in, Gottfried,” said Huston.

  “Hello, Mr. Reinhardt,” Murphy said, standing up.

  Reinhardt took a few steps forward, bobbing his head paternally at everyone. “There’s going to be trouble, John,” he said, in a tone of dry, flat amiability. He chewed his cigar around to a corner of his mouth to let the words out. “The production office thought the river for the picture was a stream. In the script, it says, ‘The regiment crosses a stream.’ Now they want to know what you mean you need hundreds of men to cross the Sacramento River?” He bobbed his head again.

  “Ho! Ho!” Huston said, crossing his legs on top of his desk. Murphy sat down again. Band paced the carpet in front of Huston’s desk.

  “Trouble!” Reinhardt said.

  “Well, now, Gottfried, you and I are used to trouble on this picture,” Huston said. He put a brown cigarette in his mouth. Band held a kitchen match to it. Huston cocked his head over the flame and gave Murphy a wry smile. “They’re afraid the soldiers will get their little tootsies wet,” he said, with a titter.

  Murphy smiled sadly. Band laughed and batted his eyes first at Huston, then at Reinhardt.

  “Now, Albert wouldn’t be afraid to cross the river, would you, Albert?” Huston asked.

  Murphy smiled.

  “I have news for you,” Band said. “I’m going to cross it. You promised me I could have a part in this picture.”

  Reinhardt laughed, the upper part of his body bouncing energetically. As Band continued pacing in front of Huston’s desk, Reinhardt fell in ahead of him, and the two men paced together. Reinhardt’s gold key chain looped into his trouser pocket flopped noisily as he paced. “Everybody in Hollywood wants to be something he is not,” he said as Huston watched him over the tips of his shoes. “Albert is not satisfied to be your assistant. He wants to be an actor. The writers want to be directors. The producers want to be writers. The actors want to be producers. The wives want to be painters. Nobody is satisfied. Everybody is frustrated. Nobody is happy.” He sighed, and sat down heavily in a chair facing Murphy. “I am a man who likes to see people happy,” he muttered through his cigar.

  The door opened, and John Dierkes entered. “Hi, John! Hi, everybody,” he said cheerfully, in a rasping drawl. He had a thick shock of stringy orange hair. “Hi, sport!” he said to Murphy. “Hedda sure likes you, sport. Didja see what she said about you today?”

  “Did you let your hair grow?” Reinhardt asked him.

  “Sure did, Gottfried,” said Dierkes. “It’s been growin’ and growin’ for weeks.” He sat down, clasped his hands between his knees, and beamed at Murphy. “You learnin’ your lines, sport?” he asked.

  Huston recrossed his legs impatiently and said that he had just seen Dierkes’ screen test. “You look like an ugly bastard,” Huston said. “You’re the only man I know who is uglier than I am.”

  Dierkes dropped his long chin in an amiable smile. “That’s what you said the first time we met, John,” he said. “In London. I was in the Red Cross and you were sure spiffy in your major’s uniform. 1943.”

  “I was on my way to Italy,” Huston said. “That’s when we made The Battle of San Pietro.”

  Reinhardt turned to Murphy. “Did you ever see the picture K-Rations and How to Chew Them?” he asked in a loud voice. He tilted his cigar to a sharp angle and pointed a finger at himself. “Mine,” he said.

  “England was just wonderful in the war,” Huston said. “You always wanted to stay up all night. You never wanted to go to sleep.”

  Reinhardt said, “I’ll bet I’m the only producer who ever had Albert Einstein as an actor.” Attention now focussed on him. He said that he had been making an Army film called Know Your Enemy—Germany, the beginning of which showed some notable German refugees. “Anthony Veiller, a screen writer who was my major, told me to tell Einstein to comb his hair before we photographed him. I said, ‘Would you tell Einstein to comb his hair?’ He said no. So we photographed Einstein with his hair not combed.” Reinhardt bounced merrily in his chair and laughed.

  “God, those English bootmakers!” Huston said. “The love and affection they lavish on their boots! Whenever I go to London, I head straight for Maxwell and order boots made.”

  Reinhardt got up and went to the door, saying that in the afternoon there was going to be a conference of the key members of the crew assigned to the picture. The cost of making a picture depended largely on the time it took, he observed. The director and his actors might work together only three hours of an eight-hour day; the balance of the time would be spent waiting for scenes to be prepared. Reinhardt wanted to discuss what he called the leapfrog method, which meant having an assistant director line up shots in advance, so that Huston could move from one scene to another without delay. �
�We bring this picture in early, we will be real heroes,” Reinhardt said.

  “Don’t worry, Gottfried,” Huston said.

  “I will see you later?” Reinhardt asked.

  “I’ll be there, Gottfried. Don’t worry,” Huston said.

  · · ·

  Since most of the film was to be shot about thirty miles from Hollywood, on Huston’s ranch, in the San Fernando Valley, Huston arranged to look over the terrain one day with Reinhardt and the production crew. I arrived at the ranch about eleven o’clock in the morning, and a few minutes later the crew drove up in a large black limousine. Huston came out of his ranchhouse to greet us, dressed in a red-and-green checked cap, a pink T shirt, tan riding pants flapping out at the sides, tan leggings, tan suspenders, and heavy maroon shoes that reached to his ankles. Included in the crew were the cameraman, Harold Rosson, a short, stocky, gum-chewing, middle-aged man with a sharp face; the unit manager, Lee Katz, a heavyset man in his late thirties, with thin blond fuzz on his head, a brisk, officious manner, and a perpetual ingratiating smile; the leapfrog director, Andrew Marton, whom the others addressed as Bundy, a serious, pedantic Hungarian-American with a heavy accent and a nervous, solicitous manner, whose job it would be to arrange things so that Huston would not have to wait between scenes; the art director, Hans Peters, a stiff, formal German with cropped hair, who also had a heavy accent; another assistant director, Reggie Callow, a harassed-looking man with a large red face, a bowl-shaped midriff, and the gravelly voice of a buck sergeant; and the technical adviser, Colonel Paul Davidson, a retired Army officer with a mustache, dark glasses, and a soldierly bearing. All were carrying copies of the script.