Adventures in the Screen Trade

by William Goldman

  Plus I was dealing with their problems with each other. Redford was disgruntled with Pakula's lack of decision. Pakula could have cared less about the Francie scenes.

  I think it was the existentialist philosopher Soren Kierkegaard who wrote about man's condition on earth being one of being caught between "insoluble tensions."

  Soren didn't know it, but he was talking about me.

  I've never written as many versions for any movie as for President's Men. There was, in addition to all the standard names, the "revised second" version and the "prehearsal" version. God knows how many. And by now the media are really gearing up to cover the film. And I'm fifteen months hacking away and tired of it all but I'm still writing these insane scenes for the star that everyone knew would never see the day and probably wishy-washy stuff for the director, who won't tell me what he wants. I didn't want to deprive anybody of any riches, I just felt impoverished and wondered if it all would ever end.

  It ended when the phone stopped ringing.

  When they started shooting, maybe a week after I'd delivered my who-knows-what version, I found out Pakula had brought in someone else to be in Washington with him.

  There is a very funny line, attributed to the late Peter Sellers, who was asked to answer the question "What would you change if you had your life to live over?" And Sellers replied, "I would do everything exactly the same except I wouldn't see The Magus."

  The Woodward-Bernstein book became a famous and successful film. I saw it at my local neighborhood theatre and it seemed very much to resemble what I'd done; of course there were changes but there are always changes. There was a lot of ad-libbing, scenes were placed in different locations, that kind of thing. But the structure of the piece remained unchanged. And it also seemed, with what objectivity I could bring to it, to be well directed and acted, especially by the stars. It won a bunch of Oscars and numberless other awards besides.

  And if you were to ask me "What would you change if you had your movie life to live over?" I'd tell you that I'd have written exactly the screenplays I've written.

  Only I wouldn't have come near All the President's Men....

  Chapter Ten

  Marathon Man

  I don't remember much clearly about Marathon Man. I wrote, in a compressed period of time, two versions of the novel and at least four versions of the screenplay, and after that, someone, I suspect Robert Towne, was brought in to write the ending. So all in all, it's pretty much a maze.

  What I do remember clearly, as clearly today as then, is Olivier.

  The part Olivier wanted to play was that of the Nazi villain, Szell, who is living in considerable luxury in South America. Circumstances force him to come to New York to retrieve a fortune in diamonds.

  He wanted the role, obviously we wanted him. The problem was would he be physically able to or, more bluntly, would he even be alive? The man has been dogged by a series of hideous ailments over the past years, killing ones. But the man is also a bull, and each time he somehow survived.

  When Marathon Man's director, John Schlesinger, first went to visit him to discuss the possibility, he came away filled with doubt. Olivier, he reported, was then almost totally incapable of movement; one side of his face worked--that was all. Beyond the question of his recovery was this: Would he possibly be able to pass the physical that all leads must take for insurance purposes prior to a film?

  All answers came in positive, and rehearsals began in a large room in what had once been the Huntington Hartford Museum above Columbus Circle. Schlesinger and I and a number of others arrived early. There is always tension at such a time, but now there was more than normal: A new problem had arisen.

  The Olivier role called for him to be bald. In his past, the character had been nicknamed "the White Angel" because of his glorious white hair. In the script, in order to help disguise himself, Szell shaves himself bald. Now a delicate moment was at hand: Olivier was old, he had been desperately ill, he didn't look all that terrific anyway--and no one wanted to bring up the subject of having his hair shaved. (There were rumors about his health flying everywhere and this would only add to it; "I just saw Olivier and his hair has fallen out. He looks worse than I've ever seen him. Bald. How much longer can he last?")

  A barber was hired for the day, but he was hidden in a room downstairs. For all anybody knew, maybe Olivier didn't even want to play the part bald. Christ, we all have vanity, and this was once one of the world's matinee idols.

  Rehearsal time approached. The barber was waiting below. But who the hell was going to ask this legend about getting disfigured?

  There were no volunteers.

  On time, Olivier moved silently and alone into the large room. We all made our hellos. Olivier carries none of his greatness with him. He is famous for taking directors aside early on and saying, "Please, you must help me. Tell me what you want." Most stars like to be thought of as being private people, being shy. We even grant those attributes to Woody Allen, this in spite of the fact that he must be the most visible celebrity in New York.

  It's not an act with Olivier. He never has considered himself to be all that much as a film actor. On the stage, obviously, he is Something. In films, he thinks of himself as being just another player.

  He also never refers to his great career as a director. No mentions of Henry V. Orson Welles, another great director, reputedly has on more than one occasion, when he first came on the floor to act, looked around, then nailed the director with probably one eyebrow raised and intoned, "Is that where you're going to put the camera?"

  Anyway, after we greeted each other there was this very long pause. Broken by Sir Laurence, who said, "Would it be possible for me to be shaved bald now? I think it might be best to get it done."

  Relief, may I add, abounded.

  During lunch break we found ourselves together and I didn't know what to say, so I fumbled something about was his hotel all right, did he like New York? Did he know it well?

  "Not all that well," he answered. "I was here I think in '46 and in '51 and '58, but I'm not that familiar with the city."

  I nodded, wondering what to say next when suddenly it hit me--Jesus Christ, '46 was his Oedipus, one of the two performances in all my life I wish I'd been able to see. (Laurette Taylor in, The Glass Menagerie was the other.) And '51--that was the two Cleopatras, the Shaw, and the Shakespeare he performed in with Vivien Leigh. And '58 was his phenomenal work in Osborne's The Entertainer. He never referred to the plays, just the years.

  But those weren't dates we were talking about; that was theatre history.

  During a break that afternoon, he was telling a story about being mugged. I was a good distance away, staring out the window like a fool, listening to every word.

  The point of the story was he was in his home in Brighton, watching television with his family. And what was on television was one of his Shakespeare movies. He went downstairs for a moment, and when he was on the lower floor, the mugger clobbered him and he shouted. But on television upstairs, what was going on was a soliloquy, and his children just thought there was Daddy below, doing the speech along with the tube.

  Well, when he told that story, when he told about being struck and shouting--Olivier really shouted.

  I spun from the window, startled by the sound, startled and at the same time thrilled. Because there it was, and I was in the room with it: the famous Olivier stage cry, the sound that has mesmerized audiences for half a century. I stood still, frozen by the power.

  Sure he was old, and God yes, the Fates had been dogging him. But even now, when he wanted to let it fly, it was there.

  William Devane, a fine American actor with a lot of stage experience, played another of the villains in the story. He rehearsed his first scene with Olivier and it all went quickly and Devane was just terrific.

  When they broke, I cornered Devane, who is bright and very articulate, and I told him how wonderfully he had done and asked what it was like, rehearsing with Laurence Olivier.
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  "It doesn't matter," Devane replied.

  I didn't know what in hell he was talking about and said so.

  "This is rehearsal," Devane said. "It's nothing. When the camera starts to roll, he'll give me a little of this, he'll give me a little of that, and you'll never know I'm in the movie. No one's going to be watching me--that's Olivier, man."

  Dustin Hoffman loves to improvise and he's expert at it. He and Schlesinger and Olivier were sitting around a table, going over the penultimate sequence in the movie, where Hoffman has Olivier at gunpoint and they begin a long walk. Hoffman said, "Let's improvise it for a while."

  Olivier said he'd really rather not. Improvisation is not something he likes to do, it's not part of traditional English theatrical training.

  Hoffman jumped up. "Let's put it on its feet and improvise."

  Olivier resisted again.

  Schlesinger said he thought that since we were there to rehearse, why not try it.

  Olivier got up. Slowly.

  He was, as I've indicated, recovering from whatever terrible disease had recently crippled him. His hands, even now, were bandaged. (I don't know the specific nature of this particular ailment; someone said it was the nerve disease that had killed Onassis, but I can't vouch for that. And when I say his hands were bandaged, I don't mean totally swathed. But there were Band-Aids crisscrossing his skin and all Scotch taped in place, perhaps to hide the sight of swelling.)

  He was protected brilliantly in the movie. There is only one moment where you can tell how frail he really was. It's at the end of the sequence in the diamond district, when he was to try and run for a nearby cab, perhaps two paces away. If you watch closely, you can see the struggle he had to put out to get to the cab. Even then two steps were almost too many.

  But now, as he stood slowly in the rehearsal hall, we were months before the shooting of the diamond scene. Hoffman mimed a gun and said "Okay, get going" and they started to walk around the rehearsal hall.

  Olivier tried ad-libbing, said again and again that he really wasn't skilled at it, could someone give him his lines, and Hoffman said, "You're doing great, just say anything, come on, we're getting somewhere."

  So they walked.

  And walked. And kept on walking.

  I don't know why all this was allowed to happen. Improvising is a part of Hoffman's vast technique, and perhaps that was the reason. But Olivier, in spite of himself, scares the shit out of other actors. (I know of one giant star who insisted on Olivier being in a movie with him. This man was and is a friend of Olivier's. The movie was well into shooting when Olivier's role began, and the night before his first appearance, the star who cared for him and insisted on him was awake the entire night in, quite simply, panic. He was nursed through that night by his producer, who told me it was so sad, seeing this star all but helpless because he was going to have to act with Olivier the next day.)

  And I think part of this was because of Hoffman's need to put himself on at least equal footing with this sick old man.

  And I don't know why Schlesinger didn't stop it. Perhaps, as he indicated, to see what might come out of it that might help the sequence.

  But I also have to think that Schlesinger knew that Olivier wouldn't give him any trouble: Hoffman was the star, Hoffman had the vehicle role, if anyone was going to bring him to grief, Hoffman was that man, and to go directly against his star's wishes so early on might not be a move of great wisdom--I'm not talking about the improvisation, I'm talking about the walking that went along with it--because inside of a few minutes, Olivier's ankles were beginning to swell.

  But on they walked. And improvised. And Hoffman was terrific. And Olivier did his best. And Schlesinger watched it all.

  And Olivier would not sit down. Would not. Give in.

  He could have stopped, he could have asked for a chair, he could have requested a break.

  But he walked.

  And now his ankles were bulging. Pain is impossible to quantify. What lays me up may be something you can deal with easily. No one can say how much anyone is capable of enduring. But watching it all take place, seeing the old man grow increasingly pale, was something I knew then I'd remember, And I mean forever.

  Truly skilled actors are rare. Of those, a few are blessed with brilliance. And of those, fewer still have even a shot at greatness. Most (Burton, Welles, Barrymore) blow it.

  Every century or so, we are blessed with a tiny handful, and as impossible as their task may be, staying great is that much harder.

  Olivier made his first stage appearance in 1922--he played Katherine in an all-boys production of The Taming of the Shrew. I doubt he was a great Katherine. But watching him as that awful improvisatory afternoon came to an end, I think I glimpsed why Olivier has been able to endure in that incredible rarefied atmosphere for so many decades. He was sure as shit great for me that day, and he'll be great on the day that he dies.

  Assuming he allows that to happen....

  Last Olivier story.

  He and Roy Scheider were rehearsing a scene. In the story they are very close to violence, but both are still trying to figure out what the other one knows. The dialog went like this:

  OLIVIER

  We must, talk. Truthfully. Are you to be trusted?--

  SCHEIDER

  --No--

  OLIVIER

  --Was that the truth? Or are you trying to upset me?--

  SCHEIDER

  --I know why you're here--and I know that sooner or later you're going to go to the bank--

  OLIVIER

  --perhaps I have already been.

  Schlesinger interrupted them. He said, "Larry, that's supposed to go fast, and after Roy says the line about the bank, you're taking a pause before 'Perhaps I have already been.' Don't take the pause."

  Olivier said "Of course," and they started into the dialog again. And then he stopped. "I have a problem about not taking the pause."

  We waited.

  "I'm trying to find out information. Roy says, 'I know why you're here.' And I need to find out what that means. Then Roy says, 'I know...' And I'm listening. Then he says, 'I know that sooner or later...' And I'm still listening. Now he says, 'I know that sooner or later you're going to go...' And I'm still listening. Finally he says, 'I know that sooner or later you're going to go to the bank.' That pause I'm taking is to give me time to register the information about the bank."

  "I understand," Schlesinger said. "But we've got to get rid of the pause."

  Olivier turned to me, then. "Bill," he said, "could I suggest an alteration in the line? Would it be all right if I changed it so that the line went, 'I know that you're going to go to the bank sooner or later?' You see, then I could register the word bank while he was saying 'sooner or later' and I wouldn't need the pause."

  Obviously it was fine with me and the line was altered and we went on without the pause. And probably this two minutes of rehearsal explained at length doesn't seem like much put down in black and white.

  But that moment--when the actor of the century asked me would I mind if he switched six words around--is the most memorable incident of my movie career. Olivier. Calling me "Bill." Olivier. Asking me would I mind.

  That's high cotton....

  Chapter Eleven

  The Right Stuff

  The Right Stuff became, literally, a nightmare.

  It began--innocently enough, as they say--in early October of '79, when a producer friend of mine called from California and told me to go out and get the Tom Wolfe book that dealt with the Mercury space program.

  I had little or no interest in the subject matter. I'm not a space buff and I assumed that the story, so heavily detailed in the press, especially Life magazine, was pretty much known.

  But I went out and bought the book. Then my producer friend called back and said he'd lost out in the scramble for the material to the producing team of Chartoff-Winkler, but that I should read the book anyway because it was terrific.

  I started to r
ead the book. For my own pleasure.

  There is a universe of difference between reading a book on your own for yourself and reading a book that someone has asked you to read to consider making it a screenplay. You want the same thing in both cases: You want to be thrilled. But when you're maybe going to have to turn the piece into a movie, there is a constant governor at work. A scene may work wonderfully in a book, but part of you is always thinking, "Can I use this? Will this play? When I compress, will this stay in or is it off the narrative spine?" Endless questions intrude. But nothing intrudes when you're on your own--it's just you and the writer, you put yourself in his hands and hope he takes great care of you.

  I read The Right Stuff just as a reader. I had been told it was terrific, but that proved to be an understatement. It was just a masterly piece of work, one of the most exciting reads I've had in a decade.

  But I sure didn't think it was a movie.

  It's 436 pages long--no problem. A Bridge Too Far ran 650 plus. But whereas Bridge, for example, focused on a single event, the Battle of Arnhem, Tom Wolfe ranged all over.

  Part of that is because the book is oddly constructed: Wolfe originally planned to write the entire saga; starting with the first seven astronauts, he was going to take the story all the way to the moon. But when he got as far as The Right Stuff takes him, he or his editor or somebody said, "Hey, this is a book right here."

  So, for example, the first forty-plus pages deal with a character who was of no significance as far as the Mercury program was concerned, but someone who played a figure in later flights. The seven Mercury, astronauts don't enter until close to page eighty. And although they are well handled, they are not the most exciting part of the story Wolfe tells.

  The real excitement deals with Yeager.

  Charles Yeager was one of those legends. A West Virginia kid who enlisted in the Army air force in 1941, at the age of eighteen. Wolfe describes him this way: "... he was the boondocker, the boy from the back country, with only a high school education, no credentials, no cachet or polish of any sort, who took off the feed-store overalls and put on a uniform and climbed into an airplane and lit up the skies over Europe."