by Kirk Douglas
I know you are gravely alarmed, but there’s no need to be. The only way I can write a script is from beginning to end, dialogue only. Then I make first corrections. Then I do the script—that is, fill in shots and description and action.
I turned my attention back to the real problem—locking in a winning cast that would defeat The Gladiators. Ira Wolfert was writing UA’s script. He had only one screenplay to his credit—and he’d done it ten years earlier. Surely he couldn’t beat “Sam Jackson” for speed or style in a writers’ race.
So I thought, until Eddie Lewis delivered more bad news. Not tragic news on the level of Mike Todd, but information that did not bode well for Spartacus vs. The Gladiators.
“Wolfert’s a front.”
“What?”
“He’s their ‘Sam Jackson.’”
“Who’s the real writer?”
“Abe Polonsky.”
Abe Polonsky was a blacklisted writer/director with a keen mind and a quick pen.
“So, where does that leave us?”
“Fucked!” said Eddie, brightly.
I stood up and started pacing. “If they’ve got Polonsky, they’ll get their script to the Englishmen at least as quickly as we can.”
“And they’ve already got location scouts in Europe.”
Europe? I thought about this for a second; then my mood brightened considerably.
“You know what that means, don’t you?” I stopped pacing and was grinning at Eddie.
Eddie looked at me blankly.
“Don’t you get it? We’ve got them beat! If they’re shooting in Europe, the weather will delay production for at least a year, until late spring or summer. We can start in January, right here in the States.”
I went on, “We need to have a finished draft by the time I leave for England in July. I want to hand it directly to Olivier along with the Fast book.”
Eddie turned to leave.
“Oh,” I said, “there’s one more thing. Tell ‘Sam’ he should spend the bulk of his time on the Roman parts. Really flesh them out. I don’t care if I get short shrift in the first draft.”
Eddie couldn’t resist. “Yeah, we already know who’s playing Spartacus. He won’t care if he doesn’t have any lines.”
“Get the hell out of here!” The day had started out so badly, but I was actually beginning to feel a little better.
The next few months flew by. I did a picture for Paramount in Arizona called Last Train from Gun Hill. Bryna produced it, along with Hal Wallis’ company.
Now the circle was really complete. A dozen years after he gave me my first job in motion pictures, here I was—Issur Danielovitch from Amsterdam, New York—coproducing with Hal Wallis! It was a long way from that first limousine ride through those big Paramount gates.
Tony Quinn costarred in Last Train, and although our rival Roman movies were locked in competition, we got along well. Maybe he was keeping his options open for a part in Spartacus, just in case The Gladiators didn’t get off the ground.
I returned to Los Angeles and my very pregnant wife. Our baby was due in four weeks, just before The Devil’s Disciple would begin shooting in London. Anne was still unconvinced that Sam Norton could be trusted with our financial security, but our arguments had subsided. I was grateful that we were not fighting, particularly now.
Dalton had followed my instructions with respect to the Roman parts. In fact, taking a device from the Fast book, he had opened the script with General Crassus—the character we wanted Olivier to play—describing his battles with Spartacus. The flashback would allow Olivier to tell the story from his character’s point of view, thus increasing its importance dramatically. Brilliant!
The other key parts were equally well developed: Trumbo had transformed the Roman senator Gracchus into a character worthy of Charles Laughton, whom we hoped would portray him, and, in Dalton’s hand, the unctuous Batiatus, owner of the gladiator school, had become a perfect role for Peter Ustinov.
I was so excited by our progress that I called Lew Wasserman to tell him, privately, that Sam Jackson was really Dalton Trumbo. In life, you never lie to your doctor or your lawyer. In Hollywood, you don’t lie to your agent. He does that for you.
I shouldn’t have been surprised by Lew’s reaction, but I was.
“I know that, Kirk.”
“You do? How . . .” I was suddenly worried that all our elaborate precautions to keep Dalton’s identity a secret were for naught. Was there a leak? This could kill Spartacus in the crib. Hedda Hopper would have a field day, and Universal would pull out before we had a deal.
“Don’t worry. Universal doesn’t know. Muhl really thinks Eddie Lewis is writing it with Fast.”
I had no choice except to trust Lew’s judgment. Still, there was a nagging fear in my gut that we would need to deal with this issue sooner or later. I just hoped it would be much later—after the picture was released.
Eric Anthony Douglas was born on June 21, 1958. It was a Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath. Anne and I were blessed with our second son.
Ten days later I left for London. The first draft of the Spartacus script was still a few months from completion, so I made sure to pack a copy of the Fast novel to give to Olivier. I hoped it would whet his appetite for the part of Crassus.
Based on a play by George Bernard Shaw, The Devil’s Disciple was a Revolutionary War drama set in New England, yet we were filming it in Old England. When Burt Lancaster and I arrived on the set, Olivier seemed distant, distracted. He wrote about it candidly in his autobiography:
I was irritatingly not “with it.” I gave way to the unattractive habit of getting everyone’s names mixed up; the least fortunate of these mistakes was always with Burt—the boss for God’s sake! Every time I addressed him as Kirk, he would look at me straight and steely-steady and say quietly, “Burt.” I could only stammer that I was afraid I must be having a nervous breakdown. I have thought ever since that my excuse must have been very close to the truth.
I soon learned the reason for Larry’s extreme distress: Lady Olivier—Vivien Leigh. Shortly after production began, she hosted a luncheon for Burt and me at their home in Notley. The guests included the urbane George Sanders and his wife, Benita. The Oliviers seemed the picture of gracious hosts.
Suddenly, that image was violently shattered. Vivien, who had been in a private conversation with her husband, raised her voice loud enough to be heard by the entire room. “Larry, why don’t you fuck me anymore?”
All conversation stopped. The pain on Larry’s face was evident, yet he said nothing. George Sanders broke the tension by raising his wineglass in a mock salute to the couple. “Oh, Vivien, stop,” he said sardonically. “In a moment, Benita will be asking the same question and then we’re all in for trouble!” Nervous laughter, then talk quietly resumed. Everyone tried not to look at Larry and Vivien.
Moments later, Vivien walked over to me. Her beautiful Scarlett O’Hara eyes were boring directly into mine. In a sultry voice she asked, “Why don’t you fuck me?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Larry rushed to her side. Even in the midst of this bizarre and uncomfortable scene, his compassion for his wife was evident. Taking her elbow gently, he guided her from the room. I was relieved to be out of the line of fire.
Months later, Larry told me that he reached his breaking point with Vivien soon after that incident. Exhausted from a particularly vicious quarrel that lasted almost until dawn, he grabbed her, dragged her down the hall, and threw her into the bedroom. She struck her head on a table, opening up a bad cut near her eye. Larry said that was the moment he realized if they stayed together any longer, he might kill her—or she him.
At the time, I knew nothing of the malady called bipolar disorder. Nobody did. Now I understand what the Oliviers were coping with because I had a similar experience with my son Eric. He eventually died from this terrible disease. So many people still don’t recognize it as an illness. They focus only on the symptoms—the dr
inking, the dope, the flagrant sexuality. They blame the victim. I’ve closed my eyes. I’m trying to erase the image of that sad, tortured woman and replace it with the beautiful southern girl that we all fell in love with in Gone with the Wind. That’s how I want to remember her.
Now I knew why Larry seemed so preoccupied on the set. How could I approach him about Spartacus when his personal life was in such turmoil? I held off giving him the book.
A few weeks later, he gave me an opening. “Kirk, there’s an annual charity event, ‘Night of 100 Stars,’ at the London Palladium. I have been asked to organize the entertainment for the evening. Might you and Burt consider performing? It would certainly be a great favor to me.”
“Let me talk with Burt. I’m sure we can put something together.”
“That’s very kind of you. I’m in your debt, sir.”
I walked back to my dressing room, smiling. Perfect—this was the time to give him the book.
Olivier read the Fast novel. He was plainly intrigued by the idea of turning it into a film. I broached the prospect of him directing it. He was startled, but quite receptive. He recognized that it would be a tremendous undertaking, but the more we talked about it, the more enthusiastic he became.
Then it was my turn to be startled.
“After my experience with The Prince and the Showgirl, I swore I would never direct and star in the same film again. But this . . . this would be an extraordinary challenge. This character of Spartacus has so many possibilities!”
He wanted to play Spartacus. I hadn’t seen that coming.
My mind was reeling, but Larry was still speaking.
“How soon can I see a draft of the script that your Eddie Lewis is writing?”
“I’ll have it before we wrap.”
“Good, good.” Larry was transforming before my eyes. The withdrawn, unhappy man of the last few weeks was now engaged, excited. How could I tell him that I was Spartacus?
I decided to wait. If the part of Crassus continued to expand—and that was Dalton’s charge—I hoped Larry would be attracted to it on his own.
The night of July 24, 1958, was definitely one to remember. Burt and I joined Larry and Viv, Noel Coward, Shirley Bassey, Terry Thomas, and dozens of others onstage at the Palladium. As the two guys from across the pond, Burt and I played to the crowd. Donning bowler hats, we entered from opposite sides of the stage, singing “Maybe It’s Because I’m a Londoner (That I Love London So).” It brought down the house. Larry loved it.
Even better, he loved the Spartacus script that Eddie Lewis brought with him ten days later. Olivier heaped praise on his “brilliant work.”
“It’s one of the most skillful first drafts I’ve ever read. It has vitality, scope, seriousness of purpose,” Larry effused.
Eddie squirmed. He hated taking credit for something he didn’t write.
I squirmed when Larry suggested that I play Crassus. He talked about his vision for the character of Spartacus. Larry felt that the role was developing in a different direction than he had envisioned from the Fast novel. He was right, of course. That’s exactly what we’d intended when we rejected Howard’s pages. We knew the saintlike father figure from the novel would never play on-screen. The human qualities of a slave who falls in love with a woman, and then with his freedom—those were the essential elements of the story.
If Larry didn’t see it our way, maybe he would still change his mind about which part he wanted to play. Then we’d have the best of both worlds: Olivier directing himself as General Crassus.
We left him with the promise of a second draft of the script and turned our attention to Charles Laughton.
He was appearing in a production of The Party at the New Theatre in London’s West End. Eddie and I went to visit him backstage. We’d already sent him the script.
I’d never met Laughton. I was a little nervous about it. Long before I became an actor, I wrote him the only fan letter I’ve ever sent anybody. His stunning performance as Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame moved me deeply. I was mesmerized by Laughton’s ability to seemingly change himself into a different person on-screen.
What I didn’t know about Charles Laughton was that his amazing gift was also his curse. His talent allowed him to lose himself completely in a role, yet it left him extremely vulnerable when he wasn’t acting. He protected himself with a diffidence that bordered on rudeness. Anger was his armor.
If I had any illusions about meeting my childhood idol, they disappeared moments after Eddie and I entered his dressing room.
Sitting in an overstuffed chair, Laughton didn’t rise to greet us. He took my hand like an offering. He motioned toward the Spartacus script.
“Mr. Douglas,” he declared imperiously, “this is shit.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not interested.”
It went downhill from there. It was obvious that he hadn’t even read the script. Somehow he had divined that it wasn’t worthy of him.
“Olivier likes it. He wants to direct it,” I said.
“That would be a disaster,” said Laughton, his elegant voice drawing out the word. “You must understand that Larry is simply not capable of a project like this.”
We stood there like schoolboys called before the headmaster. There was no further opportunity for discussion. We could only listen as he repeated himself for emphasis: “Simply not capable. A disaster.”
Class ended. We were dismissed from Laughton’s room.
On the street, Eddie and I just stared at each other for a moment, still stunned from the Laughton “treatment.”
I spoke first. “Well, that couldn’t have gone any worse.”
“At least Sir Laurence thinks I’m brilliant,” said Eddie, wryly.
“Yeah, but Laughton agrees with Fast that you’re a lousy writer.”
Laughing, we went off in search of the nearest pub.
The next day I called Lew Wasserman in Los Angeles to tell him that Olivier wanted my part and Laughton wanted nothing to do with the project.
He was, as always, unsurprised. “Larry is interested. Give him time. Laughton needs the money. He will do it.”
“But, Lew . . .” I began.
He cut me off. “Call Ustinov in Switzerland. Let me know after you’ve spoken with him.” He hung up.
I placed a person-to-person call to Mr. Peter Ustinov in Switzerland. A few minutes later the operator rang me back. “Mr. Douglas, I have Mr. Ustinov on the line.”
“Kirk!” His ebullient voice crackled through the wire.
“Hello, Peter!” I shouted to be heard through the static. “Did you get the script?”
“I did. I was quite taken with this Eddie Lewis you have working for you. He’s a talented writer.” That was two votes for Eddie. Now it was a split decision.
“What do you think of the part?”
“Well, it’s certainly very different from Quo Vadis, but I think my toga still fits.”
“That’s wonderful, Peter! I think it’s a great part for you.”
“I’m honored to be considered for it, Kirk.”
Within the hour, Lew Wasserman called with an update. “Laughton’s in. So is Peter.”
I couldn’t believe it. Lew had been exactly right about Laughton. “So, if Olivier says yes, then we have a green light from Universal?”
“Yes,” said Wasserman, succinct as ever.
Flying back to California, I read a memo from Sam Norton. The Vikings was breaking box office records in theaters across the country. We had a hit! According to Sam, Bryna’s $4 million investment would be recouped more than threefold in the United States alone.
Riding home from the airport, my mood was upbeat. After two months of dreary English weather, it was good to be home. I was eager to see Anne, Peter, and the new baby, Eric. I missed my family.
I walked through the front door yelling, “Anne!” She didn’t answer. That was strange; she knew when I was due home. I walked into the living room and saw her sitting alone on t
he couch. There were some papers on her lap.
She didn’t come over to greet me. In fact, she didn’t even look up.
“Honey, where’s the baby? What’s wrong?” Suddenly, I was alarmed.
“The baby’s fine. He’s sleeping.” Her voice was quiet.
“Then what is it? I’m gone for two months and you can’t even get up off the couch to kiss me?”
“I have something to tell you.” Something in her tone stopped me cold.
“Kirk, sit down.”
My mind was racing. What was going on here? Had I done something wrong? Were those divorce papers on her lap? This couldn’t be happening. I sat down in a chair facing her and waited for her to speak.
She looked up at me and said, “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“Tell me what?”
“Your friend Sam Norton is a crook. He’s been robbing you blind.”
“Now, Anne . . .”
She cut me off sharply.
“Kirk, I have the proof! I had Price-Waterhouse look at all the books. He’s a fraud. There’s no money.”
“You hired an accountant behind my back? How could you do that?”
“Because you wouldn’t believe me.” She said it so softly I could barely hear her. She was looking down again at the papers in her lap. I could tell she was crying.
“Honey . . .” I got up, sat down beside her, and put my arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. Anne was trembling. The papers fell from her lap onto the floor.
I reached down to pick them up and saw the cover sheet. It was the summary of an audit. I saw the names “Mr. Kirk Douglas” and “Brynaprod, S.A.,” the legal name of my company.
As Anne watched silently, I began looking through the report. This couldn’t be true. I had no money? I owed huge amounts to the government in unpaid taxes?!
I was dumbfounded. I looked at Anne. “My best friend, he was like my father. . . . You were right. I was an idiot. He played me like a violin. I’m gonna kill him!” I started back toward the door, the audit clutched in my hand like a weapon.
