King Kong

by Edgar Wallace

  But King Kong always haunted Cooper. In his old age he even contemplated a retelling of his epic tale that would relocate Kong to an asteroid divided into two regions, one a peaceful paradise, the other a wild realm of primordial terrors where Kong reigned. Cooper even imagined an aged Carl Denham visiting this lost world in space and discovering a mystical “River of Youth” that restores Denham to his youthful vigor and opens the way to endless adventures in the cosmos.

  Ironically, even while Cooper dreamed those King Kong dreams during the 1960s, he was fighting legal battles for control of his creation, which was being expropriated by commercial interests for everything from movies to model kits. The King Kong novelization itself played an important role in Cooper’s claims to the “property.” Cooper, who died in 1973, wouldn’t live to see it, but his son, Richard Cooper, prevailed in a 1976 court case that ruled that when RKO renewed its copyright on King Kong the studio had essentially acted as “constructive trustee” on Merian Cooper’s behalf—outside of the original film and a 1933 sequel, The Son of Kong, Cooper’s estate had a claim to the property. Richard Cooper would sell his King Kong rights to Universal and retain certain publishing rights.

  But the legal issues surrounding Kong hadn’t changed one particular fact—the novelization rights had never been renewed, and had gone into public domain.

  The King Kong novelization gives off the heat of the creative fulcrum of the movie production and catches, like lightning in a bottle, the alchemy of creative inspiration that formed an enduring motion picture fantasy. This work has within its pages the haunting spirit of a time when corners of the world were still shrouded in legend and mystery, when one might imagine an uncharted island that time forgot and the “Giant Terror Gorilla” who ruled it.

  * * *

  —

  MARK COTTA VAZ is the author of Living Dangerously: The Adventures of Merian C. Cooper, Creator of King Kong. Research for this foreword has drawn upon primary source material from the Merian C. Cooper Papers, Special Collections, Harold B. Lee Library and College of Fine Arts and Communications, Brigham Young University, Provo, Utah.

  INTRODUCTION

  Jack Thorne

  King Kong is, and always has been, king of the monster stories for me. I think what Wallace and Cooper did—and what Lovelace novelized—was nothing short of extraordinary. When we looked into making it into a musical, the thing we always came back to is this novelization, which provided an insight into the beast’s mind. A monster who you got time with, a monster with feelings other than destructive, and a monster whose death is tragic. In a time when too much in our news cycle has become about the other extreme—the Jaws extreme—of not knowing your attacker, just fearing it, there’s something very powerful about the Kong myth.

  It’s interesting that when writing King Kong Wallace was constantly being fed by Cooper the story of monsters—the original Dracula film and, of course, the magnificent Frankenstein—where there is a humanity to them. Kong fits into the tract beautifully—our relationship with difference and how we deal with those who are seemingly more powerful than ourselves. You can then sketch the progress of this all the way up to Thanos in Avengers: Infinity War.

  Wallace, the original writer, the man who broke the blank page, sadly died before his work was complete on the project, so as a writer I feel duty bound to state that there are two others who aren’t listed in the credits of the book who should perhaps be: Ruth Rose and James Ashmore Creelman. One section of particular note that Ruth Rose added was the ritual sacrifice of Ann that Kong interrupts. In Wallace’s original version it was the rape by a ship’s crew member. This obviously makes a huge difference to Kong’s legacy. In both cases he’s saving Ann, but in one case it’s from her own people and in the other it’s his—for the islanders think they are bringing him a sacrifice.

  Which brings me to say that there are lots of Kong legacies that were created from this story. Some very destructive ones—with dangerous racial undertones to them. How much this was meant is obviously unknown and I’ll leave it for other more clever people to discern, but what I will say is this: Cooper lived a reckless life telling reckless stories, and certainly the similarities between him and Carl Denham are manifold. In that final plane sequence, Cooper famously is one of the pilots buzzing around Kong. That is part of the reason why, in this new production, we’ve tried to examine Carl in a new way.

  When making the show, the character we fell in love with is Ann Darrow. The beauty that killed the beast. There is a tendency within these pages to pigeonhole her as a damsel in distress or a screaming blonde. We have tried to make the play her journey and to make her responsible for her journey. She makes mistakes that leaves Kong vulnerable. In doing this, we hope we’ve humanized beauty in the same way that Wallace and Cooper humanized the beast all those years ago.

  * * *

  —

  JACK THORNE, book writer, theatrical production of King Kong, July 2018.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Even in the obscuring twilight, and behind the lightly floating veil of snow, the Wanderer was clearly no more than a humble old tramp freighter. The most imaginative, the most romantic eye could have detected nowhere about her that lean grace, those sharply cleaving contours which the landsman looks for in a craft all set to embark upon a desperate adventure.

  For the likes of her, the down-at-heels support of the Hoboken pier was plenty good enough. There, with others of her kind, she blended into the nondescript background of the unpretentious old town: she was camouflaged into a comfortable nonentity. There she was secure from any embarrassing comparison with the great lady-liners which lifted regal and immaculate prows into the shadows of skyscrapers on the distant, Manhattan side of the river.

  Her crew knew that deep in her heart beat engines fit and able to push her blunt old nose ahead at a sweet fourteen knots, come Hell or high water. They knew too that surrounding her engines, and surrounding also that deep steel chamber which puzzled all of them and frightened not a few, was a staunch and solid hull. Landsmen, however, drawn to the waterfront by that nostalgia which ever so often stirs those whose lives are bound by little desks and brief commuter train rides, looked over her rusted, scaling flanks and sputtered ignorantly:

  “Lord! They don’t call that a sea-going craft, I hope!”

  Weston, though he had taxied to the waterfront bent upon a business in which nostalgia had no part, said exactly that and drew back the hand which had been about to pass over the fare from Forty-second Street and Broadway. After all, if he had mistaken the pier, it would be a foolish extravagance to let this pirate on wheels knock down his flag and so gain the right to add an extra fifteen cents to the return charge.

  Hanging tightly to his money, he lumbered out of the taxi with that short-winded dignity which marks the fat man of fifty-odd. In the same moment, an old watchman poked a cold red nose around the corner of a warehouse.

  Weston hailed him:

  “Hi, Cap! Is that the moving picture ship?”

  Only after the cold red nose had bobbed assent did Weston pass over the cab fare, and even then there was a glint of suspicious doubt in his eye. Still hardly more than half satisfied that he had not mistaken the rendezvous, he scuffed through the light fall of snow to the Wanderer’s gangway.

  “ ’re you another one agoin’ on this crazy voyage?” the old watchman demanded suddenly from the gloomy shadow of the warehouse.

  “Crazy?” Weston swung around the more quickly because the adjective bolstered a conviction that had been growing in his own mind. “What’s crazy about it?”

  “Well, for one thing, the feller that’s bossin’ it.”

  “Denham?”

  “That’s him! A feller that if he wants a picture of a lion’ll walk right up and tell it to look pleasant. If that ain’t crazy, I want to know?”

  Weston chuckled. That wasn’t so far from hi
s own estimate of the doughty director of the Wanderer’s destinies.

  “He’s a tough egg, all right,” he agreed. “But why the talk about this voyage being crazy?”

  “Because it is, that’s why.”

  The watchman emerged from his snug, protected niche the better to pursue the conversation.

  “Everybody around the dock—and lemme tell you there’re some smart men around here even if they ain’t got such high and mighty jobs—everybody around the dock says it’s crazy. Take the cargo this Denham’s stowed away! There’s stuff down there I can’t believe yet, and I seen it go aboard with my own two eyes. And take the crew! It’s three times too big for the ship. Why it’ll take shoe horns to fit ’em all in!”

  He paused but only for breath. Plainly he was prepared to bark out an interminable succession of charges against the Wanderer. Before he could re-open his critical barrage, however, a young authoritative voice put a permanent stop to it.

  “Hey, on the gangway there! What do you want?”

  Weston looked up toward the low deck rail amidship. Light streaming from a cabin astern and higher up outlined a figure; and in the illumination Weston felt sure, from Denham’s descriptions, that he was seeing the Wanderer’s personable first mate. There, unmistakably, was the long, young body Denham had praised. There were the reckless eyes, the full strong mouth. Weston, whose experiences had taught him to guard against spontaneous regard for any stranger, however personable, yielded for once to a swift liking. There, he admitted, was as pleasant a young fellow as a man could hope to meet—as any woman could hope to meet, he added, on second glance.

  “What do you want?” the brisk demand came down a second time as Weston made his inspection.

  “Want to come aboard, Mister Driscoll,” Weston replied; and grown a little more cheerful because of his liking for the mate he began a cautious ascent of the wet and slippery gangway.

  “Oh, you must be Weston.”

  “Broadway’s one and only,” Weston admitted. “Weston, the ace of theatrical agents, even if,” he added as he began to puff a little from the ascent, “my wind is not what it used to be.”

  “Come aboard! Come aboard!” cried Driscoll. “Denham’s wild to hear from you. Have you found the girl?”

  In the darkness Weston’s cheer evaporated. He made a wry face and said nothing, but followed Driscoll’s springing stride aft and up a ladder to the lighted cabin.

  This low inclosure was invitingly spick and span, but it was furnished with the spartan simplicity which characterizes womanless quarters. The sole decorations were a mirror on one wall and a well filled pipe rack on another, unless one counted an overcoat or two with attendant hats. For the rest there were only four chairs, an oblong table of the broad squat sort favored by men who like to spread out maps for studying, an open box containing black corrugated iron spheres larger than oranges but smaller than grapefruit, and a brightly polished brass cuspidor which stood close by a foot of one of the two men waiting in the cabin.

  This man was lean, and of no more than middle height. Behind a heavy moustache, his hard jaw worked slowly upon a generous mouthful of plug cut. He was in vest and shirt-sleeves. Above these a captain’s uniform cap lent an air of command, but this did not keep him from stepping definitely aside in order to leave the center of the stage to his companion.

  His companion was just such a well tailored, well groomed man of thirty-five as you might run into at any stock broker’s desk; although there you would rarely encounter such an air of solid power, of indomitable will. Bright brown eyes, shining with an unquenchable zest for the adventure of living, flashed toward Weston as he entered, and an impatient voice said without preliminary:

  “Weston! I was just going ashore to ring you up.”

  “If I’d known that I’d have waited,” Weston answered, eyeing his wet shoes.

  “Shake hands with the Skipper, Captain Englehorn,” Denham pushed on.

  The man in the captain’s cap, turning from a center shot into the bright cuspidor, held out a rough, thick hand and after it had been shaken moved the box of corrugated iron spheres to make more room at the table for Weston’s chair.

  “I take it you’re already acquainted with Jack,” Denham added, and as Weston nodded smilingly at Driscoll who smiled back, he went on, “Well! Then you’ve met a pair you’d never come across on Broadway, Old Man. Both of them were with me on my last two trips and I’ll tell you if they weren’t going on this one I’d think a long time before I started.”

  There fell that little restless silence which always burdens men upon whom extreme praise has been bestowed. Then Denham dropped into his chair and eyed the theatrical agent.

  “Where’s the girl, Weston?”

  “Haven’t got one.”

  “What!” Denham struck the table. “Look here, Weston! The Actors’ Equity and the Hays outfit have warned every girl I’ve tried to hire. And every agent but you has backed away. You’re all I’ve got left. You know I’m square….”

  “Everybody knows you’re square,” Weston grunted, breathing audibly. “But everybody knows, also, how reckless you are. And on top of that how can you hope to inspire confidence about this particular voyage when you’re so secretive?”

  “There’s truth!” drawled Englehorn, and leaned down to his cuspidor.

  “Absolutely!” cried Driscoll, rubbing his handsome young jaw. “Why not even the Skipper and the mate know where this old ship’s going….”

  “There you are!” Weston spread his palms up. “Think of my reputation, Denham. I can’t send a young, pretty girl, or for that matter even a homely one if you’d have her, on a job like this without telling her what to expect.”

  “And what is she to expect?” Denham demanded.

  “To go off for no one knows how long, to some spot you won’t even hint at…the only woman on a ship that carries the toughest mugs my wise old Broadway eyes ever looked up and down.”

  As the other three grinned the agent added hastily, “Of course I mean the crew.”

  “Weston!” Denham’s fist crashed onto the table again. “I’m going out to do the biggest thing in my life and I’ve got to have that girl.”

  “You never had a woman in any of your other pictures. Why do you want one for this?”

  “Hell’s Bells! You don’t think I’m consulting my own preference, I hope.”

  “Then, why…”

  “Why? The Public’s why! My blessed Public must have a pretty girl’s face. Romance isn’t romance, adventure is as dull as dishwater…to my Public…unless, every so often, a face to sink a thousand ships, or is it saps? shows up. Imagine! I slave, I sweat blood to make a fine picture. And then the Public says: ‘We’d have liked it twice as much if there’d been a girl in it.’ And the exhibitors say: ‘If he’d given us a real love interest, the picture would have grossed twice as much.’

  “All right!” Denham’s fist hit the table one last, decisive thump. “They want a girl. I’ll give them a girl.”

  The dark declaration of the old watchman returned to Weston. Denham wasn’t, of course, crazy. But just the same his present plan was not one a theatrical agent who cared for his reputation ought to help along.

  “Sorry!” he said, and picked up his hat. “I don’t believe there’s anything I can do for you.”

  “You’ve got to do a lot,” Denham said, “and in a hurry. We have to sail on the morning tide. We must be out of here by daylight.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess it won’t do any harm to tell you now,” Denham decided irritably. “We’re carrying explosives. And the insurance company has found out. If we don’t get away on the jump a marshal’s deputy will be on our necks. And then there’ll be a legal row and we’ll be tied up for months.”

  His mood changed suddenly, and going over to the box that Englehorn had pushed aside he pic
ked up one of the iron spheres. He looked at it with a proud, possessive grin.

  “Far be it from me,” he said, “to tell you, Weston, that any girl you’d find for me would meet with no danger on this expedition. Of course there’ll be a little now and then. Maybe,” he conceded with a broader grin, “more than a little. But take this from me! So long as we have a couple of these handy, nothing very serious can happen.”

  “What have you got there?”

  “Gas bombs, Old Man! My own prescription. Or perhaps I should say my own improvement upon standard models. Gas bombs powerful enough to knock a row of elephants for a loop.”

  “W-What?” Weston stammered. “Denham, everything I hear makes me like this business less. I’m beginning to be glad I didn’t find you a girl.”

  “Don’t be like the insurance company,” Denham said scornfully. “Don’t worry about a little explosive. There’s no more harm in these than in so many lollypops as long as they are handled by men who understand their little ways—men like Jack there, or the Skipper, or myself. The truth is, Weston, plain rain and the monsoon season are likely to cause us a lot more trouble and danger.”

  “M-Monsoons!”

  “Sure! They’re another reason why I’ve got to get my girl and start instanter. I can, of course, trust the Skipper to take the Wanderer through a blow; and Jack, too!” Denham paused for an affectionate slap at Driscoll’s broad back. “But the monsoons bring rain, and rain ruins an outdoor picture. It wastes months, wastes money, and leaves a man with nothing to show for all his work.”

  “M-Monsoons! G-Gas bombs!” Weston was still stuttering. “By George! You make me feel like a potential murderer.” He clapped his hat firmly onto his round head and reached for the doorknob. “Denham, you’ll get no girl through me.”

  “What?”