I Am Spartacus!

by Kirk Douglas

  “No, this is Joe McCullough. I’m a freelance writer and I hope you can help me.”

  I was taken aback. “Why did you say you were Lew Wasserman?”

  “I couldn’t get through to you any other way. I thought this would get your attention.”

  I controlled my impulse to hang up. “What do you want?”

  “I’m trying to get an interview with Sam Jackson, the writer of Spartacus.”

  Uh-oh. Here we go again. “So why did you call me?”

  “Well, you know Sam Jackson, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Can you tell me how to get in touch with him?”

  “Contact the publicity department.”

  “I’ve done that. They never call me back.”

  “Well, I can’t help you. They’re calling me for the next shot. You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got to go.” I hung up.

  I didn’t like being put on the spot. I also knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

  That night, I left the studio early. Since we started shooting Spartacus, it was very rare for me to get home before the kids were already asleep. As I entered the house, I heard their squeals. Anne was giving them a bath together in the tub. I walked into the bathroom and gave them each a soapy kiss. Then I went into the bedroom, kicked off my shoes, and stretched out on the bed. I was bothered by that phone call. After almost a dozen years, the damned blacklist was still real. And whether I liked it or not, I still had to play the game. Didn’t I?

  My thoughts were interrupted when Anne came into the bedroom.

  “Hello, darling.” She gave me another kiss, this time without soap bubbles. “Was today hard?”

  “No, today was an easy one.”

  “Why do you seem so distracted?” It was uncanny how she could read me.

  I only had to say one word. “Trumbo.”

  “Why is it so complicated? Why don’t you just tell them he’s writing the picture? He’s doing a good job, isn’t he?”

  “You don’t understand!” I heard myself shouting.

  I was up off the bed, pacing the room. Anne watched me silently. She’d seen this movie before, many times.

  “Of course the blacklist is wrong. I’ve spent months thinking of some way to break it. You can use a false name or a front and that’s okay. But if you use the writer’s real name, you’re in trouble. It’s crazy, but it’s not the issue. If I rock the boat, we might lose everything—the picture, the company, my career, everything. We can’t take that risk.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Anne asked quietly, “Doesn’t everybody already know he’s writing it?”

  “Universal doesn’t.” I was no longer shouting. “Those leaks in Winchell’s column and in the trades had Ed Muhl all worked up. It took me half an hour to convince him that it was all just gossip, but they warned me that if Trumbo was involved in any way, they’d have a big problem releasing Spartacus.”

  Anne smiled. “I tell you, I really love your crazy country.” She looked at me for a moment and then said, “Listen, Kirk, you’re no dummy. You’ll figure out how to handle it.”

  The blacklist. I even hated the name “blacklist.” But, for once, maybe Anne was wrong. I had absolutely no idea how to handle it.

  I also didn’t have too much time to think about it. The quick change in directors and leading ladies had created an atmosphere of chaos on the set that was becoming more evident by the day. Dialogue was written, rewritten, discarded, rewritten again, then improvised.

  Egos clashed like swords. Stanley Kubrick vs. Dalton Trumbo. Charles Laughton vs. Laurence Olivier. Kubrick vs. his cinematographer, Russell Metty. Peter Ustinov likened the on-set politics to a “Balkan government in the good old days.”

  One of the most memorable illustrations of these tensions involved Charles Laughton. Laughton, sensitive as he was brilliant, believed that his part was slowly being diminished. He chose to blame me for this.

  I was in my dressing room, reading my script, when I heard a loud rap on the door.

  “Come in!”

  The door opened and in walked Charles, still clad in the senatorial Roman toga of his character, Gracchus. Even that bulky garment failed to conceal his ballooning weight. He had recently described himself as “looking like an unmade bed.”

  Laughton was carrying a small metal thermos. I knew it contained his favorite beverage, the “bull shot”—a toxic mixture of beef bouillon and vodka. His expressive face was contorted unmistakably in rage.

  “Hello, Charles,” I said cautiously. I started to reach for a glass, so he could pour himself a drink.

  “I am not here on a social call, Mr. Douglas,” he intoned imperiously.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I wish to inform you that I have notified my solicitors. I intend to take legal action against you and your company.”

  I stared at him, incredulously. This was the man I had written a fan letter to when I was a kid. Now he was going to sue me.

  “Charles . . .” I began.

  “Believe me, sir. I will cause you much trouble.” He turned around to leave. Standing in the open doorway, blocking his exit, was the buxom blond actress Mamie van Doren. She was shooting another picture on the lot and had been assigned the dressing room next to mine.

  “Excuse me, madam,” he said haughtily. I watched as Charles tried to squeeze his enormous girth past Mamie’s 35-23-35 figure. The image struck me as so ridiculous that I started chuckling.

  Charles shot me a hostile glance over his shoulder. This only made me laugh harder. “Go ahead, sue me,” I said to his back. “What the fuck do I care!”

  As Charles retreated angrily, Tony Curtis appeared in the doorway, wearing only a small loincloth. Mamie’s eyes lit up. “Tony, you’re late.” She’d been ogling him for weeks—not too subtly.

  Tony winked at her. Mamie took the cue and went back to her dressing room with a smile too big for her face.

  Then Tony asked me, “What was that all about with Laughton?”

  “Who the hell knows? Charles thinks I’m cutting him out of the picture. It’s just more of the same—everyone’s got a beef.”

  “Yeah, you and Stanley were sure going at it earlier,” said Tony. “I couldn’t believe it. A month ago, you two were practically finishing each other’s sentences—I thought I’d need to get you guys a room.”

  I glowered at Tony. This wasn’t funny. Kubrick and I had been arguing a lot lately. The budget was still creeping up. We were now about to hit $8 million, and there was no end in sight. Stanley’s exasperating genius was his blessing and our curse. He focused on every detail of every shot, causing frequent delays in the production. He’d completely taken over Russ Metty’s job, consigning the veteran cameraman to the role of highly paid observer. Metty took it badly, mocking Stanley at every opportunity. Characteristically, Stanley wasn’t bothered by the criticism—he simply ignored it and did what he wanted.

  “You think this is easy?!” I shouted at Tony. “Why don’t you try being the boss for a day?”

  I wasn’t angry at him. The Laughton episode had gotten under my skin. Charles relished being difficult because it made him the center of attention. I’d given him exactly what he wanted.

  “Hail, Spartacus!” said Tony, playfully giving me a one-finger salute as he headed toward Mamie’s dressing room.

  “To hell with Spartacus!” I said, storming off toward the set.

  My battles with Stanley finally reached their breaking point that same day. The issue was the pivotal scene in which the captured Spartacus and his remaining troops are all in chains, awaiting their fate. I’d sent Stanley a note with what I thought was a pretty good idea for dramatizing the slave army’s loyalty to their leader:

  The battle is over and in a gully near the battlefield, all the prisoners are being rounded up; a large group of them are already chained and are sitting around, waiting for the next move. They are dejected; there is a hustle and bustle of Roman soldier
s, Generals on horseback, mule wagons loaded down with chains for the prisoners . . .

  At a distance, on a rise, sits the noble Crassus on his white horse. He is surveying the assembly of prisoners . . . next to him is one of his Generals. At a signal from Crassus, his subordinate General rides down with a group of slaves.

  In a loud voice, he announces to them that whoever identifies the living or dead body of Spartacus will be set free. There is a sudden, silent hush over all the prisoners. Spartacus gets up . . .

  Suddenly, Antoninus jumps up with his arm waving, “I am Spartacus!” David the Jew follows suit. In short order, the hundreds and hundreds of slaves are all jumping up, yelling in a happy vein, “I am Spartacus!”

  Crassus stands alone, surveying this mockery of his victory by a group of doomed men. He whirls away on his horse, in his ears the crescendo of exultant slaves all yelling in unison . . . “Spartacus . . . Spartacus . . . Spartacus!”

  Kubrick didn’t reply to my idea, which only added to my irritable mood.

  We were shooting a scene where I was on horseback. As I mounted my beautiful brown mare with the white stripe down her face, I saw Stanley setting up for the shot. He was dressed in the same blazer and khaki pants that he’d worn every day since I first introduced him as the new director. I’d heard grumblings from the crew that Stanley’s lack of concern about his apparel was a sign that he didn’t care what they thought of him. This was true; he didn’t care. But a more experienced director would have understood that it was always better to have the crew with you than against you.

  I trotted over to Stanley. “Hey, Eisenstein,” I called down to him. I knew Stanley admired the Russian director. He looked up at me from behind the camera.

  “Have you ever thought about changing your clothes?” I said.

  He looked at me blankly, as though I’d asked him if he was a Martian.

  “No,” he muttered distractedly, looking back through the viewfinder of his camera.

  “Goddamn it, Stanley, I’m talking to you!”

  He looked up at me again, still expressionless.

  “Stanley,” I said calmly. “It would help if you’d bother to change your clothes every now and again. People would think you cared enough to make a good impression.”

  “I don’t,” said Stanley, simply. He started to look through the camera again. I rode my horse right up to him.

  “Stanley.” My voice was low, but now angry. “I care.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see all the crew members watching us carefully. Stanley looked up from his viewfinder but said nothing.

  “Go to the store tomorrow and buy yourself some new clothes. I’ll pay for them.”

  “I don’t . . .” he began.

  “Stanley, this is not a discussion. You’re going to wear new clothes to the set tomorrow. Understand me?”

  Kubrick began to redden, but there was still no response. I rode my horse so close to him he had to back away from the camera.

  “I asked you a question,” I said.

  “Yes,” he replied finally, although his tone indicated he meant no.

  I inched my horse even closer to Kubrick. He was now backing up with every advance. Some of the dust kicked up by the horse was getting into his eyes. He brushed his face and looked at me angrily.

  “And while we’re on the subject of understanding, there’s something else I want you to understand. When I send you a memo about shooting a scene, I at least expect an answer. I sent you that note about the ‘I am Spartacus’ scene and you haven’t even bothered to respond.”

  “That’s because I don’t want to do it,” said Kubrick, coolly. “It’s a stupid idea.”

  That was the wrong thing to say.

  I pushed the horse right up against him. She nosed him back against the wall, pinning him there.

  “Listen, you little prick,” I said. “I’ve gone along with you on everything and you’ve been right about most of it. You were right about cutting out almost all of my dialogue at the beginning of the movie. You were right about the scene between Varinia and Spartacus just touching hands—it’s much better the way you shot it. You’ve been right about making the battle scenes more realistic. It’s cost us a helluva lot of time and money, but I’ve supported you every step of the way.”

  “Kirk . . .” he began.

  “Shut up. This may be a stupid idea but we’re going to try it. If it doesn’t work, we’ll cut it out, but we’re going to shoot it.” My voice was now loud enough for the whole crew to hear. They were hanging on every word.

  For the first time, Stanley looked a little intimidated. I hadn’t wanted to do this in front of the entire crew, but perhaps it was a good thing. He was enormously talented—to a fault. With a little humility, I really believed he could be a great director.

  Stanley, literally with his back to the wall, capitulated. “I’ll set it up. We’ll shoot it tomorrow.”

  I looked down at him and smiled. “Thanks, Stanley,” I said. “And get yourself something other than a blazer, okay?”

  With that, I turned my horse around and galloped off the set. Maybe I was imagining it, but I thought I heard a smattering of applause as I rode away. Or maybe I’d seen too many Tom Mix movies as a kid.

  We had now been in production for four months. Larry was about to return to England for his highly anticipated run as Coriolanus at Stratford-on-Avon. I was going to miss working with him. Besides being a brilliant actor, he was always gracious to everyone, cast and crew alike. A true gentleman.

  That weekend, Anne and I drove down to our house in Palm Springs, so I could rest and get away—at least briefly—from the trials of Spartacus.

  On Sunday, after sleeping for almost twenty-four consecutive hours, I was awakened by a call from Jean Simmons. Finally, some good news. Her doctor had cleared her to come back to work, after an absence of almost six weeks. I breathed a sigh of relief. We could finally stop shooting around her.

  After my welcome call from Jean, I put on my swim trunks and went out to rest by the pool. After about an hour, the sun began to set, casting lengthening shadows over the desert. The nearby mountains darkened into silhouettes as they slowly disappeared from view.

  I had just dozed off again when I heard Anne’s voice calling to me, “Pick up the phone—Eddie Lewis.”

  Dazed from sun and sleep, I reached for the extension phone on the poolside table. “What’s up?”

  “I just got a telegram from Trumbo.”

  “A telegram?”

  “Yeah, it’s addressed to both of us.”

  “Read it.”

  I heard the sound of an envelope being torn open.

  “‘The two actors,’” began Eddie, “‘neither of whom is a writer, have met and arrived at mutual decisions about how a writer should write.’”

  I interrupted. “Which two actors?”

  “He obviously means Laughton and Ustinov. Let me read you the rest: ‘I recognize no such authority, nor any precedent for people to become creative in fields in which they are, so far as my knowledge follows them, unqualified. I have rewritten as much as I intend to. Let the real creative people take over and improve my feeble efforts, and let them also take a credit which it has been mutually assumed shall be assigned to no one.’”

  “Is he saying he won’t rewrite any more of the Laughton-Ustinov scenes? What does he . . . ?”

  “Kirk, hang on a second, there’s someone at the door.”

  After a moment Eddie came back on the line. “Well, we just got another telegram.”

  “From Sam Jackson?”

  “Yes—are you sitting down?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He began reading again: “‘Twenty minutes after my wire regarding the two actors, I have arrived at the decision that I quit this picture absolutely.’”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Wait, there’s more,” said Eddie. “‘Inadvertent, continued insults do not disturb me. Calculated ones, in which what I ha
ve always felt was an honorable profession, are too degrading for me to endure. There are more talented men in the art of acquiescence who will serve you better throughout your careers.’”

  I exhaled audibly. No one wrote outrage better than Dalton, even in a telegram.

  Eddie finished delivering the bad news. “Then he signs it, ‘With a good deal of affection, but with far more resentment and disgust. Sam.’”

  “Jesus, Eddie. This is a disaster.”

  “Yeah. We’re already two months behind schedule.”

  “This could shut us down permanently.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Kirk? Are you still there?”

  “No, I’m not. I need to deal with this right now. Talk to you later.”

  I hung up quickly, threw on clothes, and jumped in my car.

  As I headed toward the freeway for the two-hour drive up to Trumbo’s house, I tried to sort out what I was going to say to him.

  He was right, of course. The continued rewriting of his script pages—often on the fly—was degrading. Dalton Trumbo was a man of considerable pride. It was going to be a very difficult conversation, and he might still quit the picture.

  I pulled up to his house. His battered old car was parked in the driveway. Good, he was home. I rang the doorbell. From inside the house, I heard the parrot repeatedly squawking a phrase. It sounded like, “On the rocks! On the rocks! On the rocks!”

  The door opened and Dalton appraised me coldly. “I wondered how long it would take you to get here.”

  I grinned. “I got a telegram from your ‘friend’ Sam Jackson. Is he here?”

  “No, I killed him. We just buried him in the backyard. It was a lovely ceremony. Too bad you missed it.” He turned around and walked back toward his study without even a handshake.

  I followed him and tried to lighten the mood. “Why didn’t you call me? I would have sent flowers.”

  “It doesn’t matter; he won’t be missed.”

  Now he was behind the bar, pouring drinks. “Certainly not by anyone who’s read his work,” he added.

  Taking a deep swallow of my drink, I asked Dalton pointedly, “What will it take to bring him back to life?”

  “It’s too late. Easter was last month. Besides, you’re a Jew. You don’t believe in resurrection.”