by Anne Edwards
Dalton Trumbo was in London, and Sidney was hosting a small lunch for him at the Ivy and had invited me. There were nine of us: Dalton, Sidney, me, Adrian Scott, Ring Lardner Jr., his wife Frances, Lester Cole, Kate Simon (the American travel writer who was dating Lester at the time), and Harold Buchman, Sidney’s brother. The Ivy catered to the before-and-after theater folk. We arrived as most of the customers were leaving for a matinee performance and had the place almost to ourselves for the rest of the afternoon.
I had not previously met Dalton. He was a well-sung hero among the expats, silent before the Committee, having served prison time for it and, although blacklisted, turning out one excellent screenplay after another from Mexico under an assumed name. The previous year his screenplay for The Brave One, which was credited to Robert Rich, won the Oscar for Best Original Story. The Academy had not known that Dalton Trumbo and Robert Rich were the same man. Dalton never showed up in Hollywood to collect the award and so a mystery was born: who was Robert Rich? The expats knew but weren’t talking. (The credit, as well as the Oscar, was given to him years later.) Dalton was well loved, a small, vigorous man, dapper in appearance.
Four of our group—Dalton, Lester, Ring, and Adrian—had been members of the Hollywood Ten and had spent a year in prison for contempt of the Committee by refusing to give names. Lester had achieved less success in Hollywood than the others and was of the strong opinion that his best work was on the horizon when HUAC dropped the ax. He was a very angry man. Fortunately he was warmhearted as well, loyal to his trusted friends and giving. He often was a guest at my table and each time he would bring with him a gift, however small, that represented my taste, or the children’s—not his. A true talent. But he did have this combustible anger inside and when fired up, his face flushed dark red, and his voice took on a hard, cutting edge. Someone at the table made a passing remark about the director Edward Dmytryk, one of the Hollywood Ten who had been sentenced to prison and then cooperated with the Committee to give names to earn an early release. Lester bristled. “I hate that sonofabitch!” he said as he put down his knife and fork and edged his plate away.
“Calm down, Lester,” Kate advised.
He instantly turned on her. “I hate that man!” he repeated.
“It doesn’t help to hate,” she cajoled.
“What do you know about hate?” he asked in a raised voice. “Hate is when a little Napoleonic chairman can sit in judgment of you and your government allows it. Hate is when you live in subhuman conditions for a year in a state institution that your countrymen permit to exist!”
Sidney rose from his chair and came around the table and placed his hands on Lester’s shoulders.
“We know, Lester. We know,” he said gently.
The room had suddenly chilled. There was graveside silence. Then, Frances Lardner, whose husband had also been incarcerated, began to talk to Kate who had grown pale—just a casual conversation, inquiring about Kate’s long stay in Paris, people they both knew. Sidney remained with his hands in place for a few moments and then went back to his seat.
Ring and Frances were a great couple. He had won an Academy Award in 1942 as coscreenwriter with Michael Kanin of Woman of the Year and had written many fine movies before his world had crashed. It would not be until 1965 that his name would reappear on new works for the screen—The Cincinnati Kid and M*A*S*H being two of his later screenplays, the latter bringing him a second Oscar.
At one point, Adrian (who had kept his ear to the Hollywood scene) leaned across the lunch table to tell me that he understood someone at MGM had bought from Fox the rights to my script Riot Down Main Street in a trade-off deal. There was a rewrite being done, changing the reporter’s race from Mexican to black as a vehicle for Sidney Poitier, who was a fast-rising star.
“But it’s based on a true story,” I protested.
“What does Hollywood know about truth? You’ve heard the axiom ‘Never let the truth get in the way of a good story’?” he laughed. “They have a black actor bringing in the coins and a lack of stories for him that Southern exhibitors will accept.”
[Flash forward to 1961: Sidney Poitier had not made the movie. I get a call from a man who tells me he is a representative of Pennebaker Films, Marlon Brando’s independent production company. Mr. Brando, he informs me, has recently purchased the rights to my script from MGM and is in London and would like to discuss the story with me. He added that Mr. Brando would not be appearing in the film if it was made; he would be acting as producer and director. I made an appointment to meet with Brando the following afternoon in his suite at the Savoy Hotel.
I had been around so much celebrity in my life that I was not usually awed in one’s presence. Marlon Brando was another matter. I had seen A Streetcar Named Desire four times and On the Waterfront twice. I considered him America’s finest screen actor. He was both an artistic and a social force. I arrived on time, and a bit nervous. He stood up when his assistant led me into the drawing room of his suite, but he kept his hands buried in his pants pockets. No handshake. His dress was casual—a blue cashmere sweater over a white shirt—hair slicked back in place.
The assistant departed. Brando freed his hands, motioning for me to sit down on one of the two sofas that faced each other in the room. He lowered himself carefully on the sofa opposite where I was now seated and picked up the receiver of a telephone from the end table beside him. “Tea, coffee, maybe something stronger?” he asked.
“Nothing, thank you.”
He replaced the receiver. “I’m told you’re a blacklisted writer.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a more intimate level. No mumbling, however. He had beautiful, melting eyes. “It fucks,” he said. Then he spread his legs and leaned back against the cushions of the sofa. “I thought you might want to take a look at the script. I got two versions—yours and another one. Yours is pretty damn good. I’d like to preserve what I can. The basic premise. You’re writing about racial bias. The Mexican situation in Texas? Fucks. We know that. You ever think about real Americans—Native Americans. The country’s injustice to them. That fucks. Nobody writes about them. Unless they’re riding hard on their way to scalp a party of white usurpers. It was their land, after all.” He pulled himself slowly together and up and walked around the back of the sofa and leaned on it as he stared directly at me.
“You never see an Indian hero in a movie. I know a few Navahos. They fought in World War II, the Korean War. They live like shit and are treated like dogs. Now ya know, you can stick to the same story. The minority guy, this time a Native American, getting a bum rap. He was a hero. Fought in the war, fuckin’ died, and now they want to ship his remains to a reservation and bury him without all the rat-tat-tat that a white soldier would get. Like the government doesn’t want the country to know that there’s been an Indian who helped save American lives.”
“Mr. Brando,” I interrupted, “I have no doubt that what you say about our Native Americans is correct. They are treated shabbily. They live in poor conditions. But my story is based on a true incident. The dead hero was of Mexican descent. From Texas. There was some historical truth to MGM’s recasting the story with blacks. There is, as we know, color restrictions in parts of the States where cemeteries are repugnantly segregated. Maybe there’s a story in your Indian—”
“Navaho.”
“Navaho—hero. I don’t think the story I wrote works with your premise.”
“Ya don’t?”
“It’s a different story. I don’t know if a Navaho Indian in Arizona—or whatever state there’s a reservation—has been refused burial outside his reservation. I sincerely doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Well, a lot of research would have to be done.”
“It could happen. It could happen,” he mused, ignoring my answer.
“And the reporter?” I asked. “He is really the major player. The soldier is dead from the opening shot.”
“Big league. Comes to town—desert shit-place
. Sand in your teeth when the wind blows. He comes into town ready to fight for one of his own.”
“The reporter is an American Indian?”
He looked upward as if the movie was being projected on the ceiling. There was silence for a few long moments. Then he lowered his gaze and smiled at me, not a big, wide smile, one that twitched at the side of his mouth. “It could happen,” he repeated.
I rose from the sofa.
“I’ll keep in touch,” he said as I spoke my farewell and headed for the door. He followed me there and held it open. “It fucks. Really fucks,” he said and patted me on the shoulder.
That was the only meeting I ever had with Marlon Brando. Riot Down Main Street was never made as a movie.]
Sunday mornings a lucid stillness descended on London until the sound of church bells echoed across the city. Pubs were closed. Many stores locked their doors at one p.m. Saturday and did not open them until Monday morning. One paid a penny a day for an overdue book from the library, but as it was closed on Sunday there was no charge. The museums generally did not open until two p.m. Tourists tended to go out of the city, weather permitting, to places like Hampton Court where the famous maze was a popular attraction. We three took the train there one Sunday that began with moderate sunlight then darkened into a threatening storm. I have never had a decent sense of direction. The children had run ahead in the maze, Michael leading the way dexterously when I suddenly found myself separated from them by thick shrubbery and descending black clouds. Everywhere I turned took me farther away from the clear sound of their bright voices. I was quite terrified, so I stopped and began shouting to them. Suddenly, there was Michael’s grinning face as he pulled Cathy behind him and called out, “Here we are!” He believed I thought they had been lost.
One similar thundershowery Sunday afternoon, Kit Adler called to invite we three over to her apartment where she was planning a puppet show for the children (she now had four) and some of their small friends, tea to follow. It struck me as a jolly way to spend a dreary Sunday afternoon and off we three went. The show was a happier, less slap-me-down version of Punch and Judy. Kit was wonderful with children—old and young ones. There was one little girl, about three, accompanied by an au pair. The child’s name was Laura. The young woman seeing after her was a friend of Kit’s helper. Laura did not let go of the au pair’s hand for a minute and was not really happy to be where she was or to join in with the other children when the puppet show ended. By the time tea was served (highly diluted with milk) along with cookies and small sandwiches, Cathy, always the hostess even when she wasn’t, had made a small inroad in gaining Laura’s attention and she sat down beside her. About an hour later, her father came to collect her and the au pair. Laura was clinging to Cathy’s hand, not wanting to let go. The father introduced himself—sort of.
“My kid seems to like your kid,” he said, a Brooklyn cadence to his voice. “You live near here?”
“Off the Gloucester Road.”
“Oh, uptown.”
“That depends on which direction you are coming from.”
“Audley Street.”
“Uptown.”
“Maybe we can make a date—your kid—”
“Cathy.”
He grinned at her. Strong, even, white teeth, big smile, black wavy hair—carefully coiffed, the scent of a familiar men’s cologne.
“Cathy. Hi. I’m Sy Stewart, Laura’s dad.” He turned to me. “And Cathy’s mother?”
I nodded and added, “Anne Edwards.”
He went over and lifted Laura in his arms. He was not a tall man—maybe five foot seven, tops. A little heavier than Tony Curtis, but there was a distinct similarity in their looks and manner. Never could Sy Stewart be taken for any other nationality than American, even if he was silent.
“I’ll call you,” he said as he was leaving. “I got your number from Kit. Okay?”
“Okay.”
In movie-talk, this would be called “meeting cute.” But I gave little weight that he was actually interested in me in anything other than to organize a playdate between his daughter and mine and, as Cathy was four years older than Laura, I was not sure that would work out satisfactorily.
• 7 •
Everything in Life Is a Gamble
If I had known more about Sy Stewart at the onset, I might have seen the danger signals and averted them. I later told myself that I should have been prepared for what was coming. It was not as though I had never found myself hoodwinked by a man’s flattering attention or my hungry libido.
His full name was Seymour Stewart Schwartz. He grew up in New York wanting to be rich and famous. The problem was he did not have a great talent that might fulfill his ambition, although he did have style and a certain charisma. He was enamored by the entertainment business—music and films, by the lifestyles of the movers and shakers, the stars, the winners. The world according to Sy was made up of only two groups—winners and losers. Winning was important. He was good looking, quick thinking, and when he finally came to think about it, did have one talent: an ability to sell almost anything—especially himself. He had some early success in the music publishing business, which in the forties and fifties was centered in the Brill Building at 1650 Broadway where something like three hundred music publishers had offices, most with cubbyholes overcrowded with a piano, a bench, and maybe a chair. In these, songwriters performed their pop tunes to a publisher. If the song was bought, it was published. A song’s popularity was judged by how many sales the sheet music of it sold. Song pluggers were responsible for upping sales, getting bands and singers to promote them. In earlier times, the street the Brill Building was on was nicknamed Tin Pan Alley, as had its predecessor in lower Manhattan. Sy was able to make his way to the top people. “Always start with the big brass” was his motto. For him, it worked. What he hated about what he did was the stigma attached to the profession. Song pluggers were perceived as being “not too classy.” If there was one thing that Sy really wanted to acquire, it was “class.” Innately he did possess it. He dressed expensively but never looked flashy. He had an inbred instinct for what was good and admired, not just people who had made pots of money, but those who had achieved something of worth. His education had not included a college degree, but he was a fast learner, recognized knowledge that would be helpful, quickly processed it, and dispersed it with much authority. By the midfifties the song plugger had become outmoded. The recording industry had taken over. Now it was how many records were sold. Sy decided to take a crack at movies one-two-three: 1) find a script (a property), 2) get someone with a name (sales value) involved, and 3) pitch it to a backer (and end up with a fair percentage of the deal). What he was engaged in—promoting—was not exactly a profession. Still, he had the talent and the instinct for it and developed it into a profitable enterprise.
He was not political, although he was a liberal steeped in American values and the godlike memory of Franklin Delano Roosevelt by his Jewish immigrant parents. He had come to London because England was the place where films were able to be made much cheaper than in the States, a pool of talent was ever available, and Hollywood credentials were not required. Promoting on this high a level was not done in an office but during an expensive luncheon or dinner in a four-star restaurant (where the owners and headwaiters knew you as a good customer and big tipper). A clever promoter dressed well, had manicured nails, and was up to the minute on current film transactions and transgressions.
Two or three days after we had met at the Adlers’, he called. It was the au pair’s day off and maybe my kids could go somewhere with him and Laura. “Cathy doesn’t get home from school until after three, and Michael not until five,” I told him, adding, “Look, why don’t you bring Laura here about 3:30. She can stay for the afternoon and have an early supper. You could pick her up about seven.”
“I don’t want to just drop her on you.”
“It’s fine. Really. Three fifteen. Okay?”
They arrived twenty
minutes early. “We had lunch and did some shopping and were through early,” he said, handing me a Fortnum & Mason bag. “Did I interrupt anything?”
“I usually work when the kids are in school. I’m a writer. But I was just set to quit for the day.”
Laura had already found, and was hugging, a giant teddy bear that Cathy had left in a chair, more as a decoration, having passed the stage of playing with stuffed animals. “Pooh Bear,” she said. I went over to her. “Not Pooh. A relative, like a cousin. Do you have a cousin?” She shook her head. “Well, like a friend. He can be your friend until Cathy comes home and then you’ll have two friends.” She seemed pleased with that idea and became involved in a low-voiced conversation with the bear. “Why don’t you leave Laura here with me and come back at seven?”
“I’ll stay for a few minutes to make sure she’s okay,” he decided, and sat down in the chair the stuffed animal had just vacated. “Kit Adler told me you are divorced.”
“That’s right.”
He craned his neck for a quick glance toward the front bedroom. “No one . . . you know.”
“I’m unattached if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Yeah. That was what I was getting at. What are you writing?”
“A television script.”
“No real profit in that. An original pilot, yes, maybe. You’d get a cut of that.”
“Well, it’s just a television assignment and I’m glad to have it,” I said with an edge.
