The scene that follows, the confessional if you will—one of the most famous in modern films—amazingly enough did not work. It was in a couple of different places in the script. And one day Towne was meeting with the director, Roman Polanski, and they both knew there was something wrong, it was no fucking good, and suddenly they both realized that a confession of this depth is not casually spoken, it is bled, battered out of someone, and the force of revelation struck Towne: Nicholson would have to beat the truth out of Dunaway. The moment he knew that, the scene was written in half an hour.
Remember that no film, before it comes out, is a classic. We fantasize, sure. But usually only in the privacy of our own rooms. I remember when George Roy Hill and I were working on Butch; during a break we started talking about our hopes for the film. One of us, could have been me, said, “I just want it to be remembered as being as good as The Gunfighter.” (Check it out at your video store.)
And when you luck into a classic, as Chinatown turned out to be, certain moments and actors take your memory. Here, obviously, you think of Nicholson with his cut nose, Dunaway trying to control her crumbling world. But the great performance in the movie, for me anyway, and the greatest role, is neither of those.
TOWNE
Noah Cross is the center of the story. Without Noah Cross the story goes to shit. I mean, his character is absolutely the center of it all, and I’ve often reflected that it’s Huston’s performance, which is so uncompromising. He doesn’t blink or hesitate in the fact that he is an evil man. Most people won’t have to face the fact that at a certain time and a certain place, they’re capable of evil. And his rationale was that he faced the fact that everybody has it in them, and that he just did it.
Take a look at the ending Chinatown scene, where Huston is taking his younger daughter from the car. Ecstasy on his face. Evil triumphant. And even though he is not present in the earlier confession scene, boy is he there.
Before our interview, I had only talked to Towne once. It was right after I first saw Chinatown, was bowled over by the story he told, the way he told it, got his number from our agent, called and raved.
Towne was not, at that moment, a happy camper.
TOWNE
Looking back at it now, I’m somewhat chagrined at my anger at Polanski. There were a lot of things. There has been a lot of talk about his ending, which is what’s in the movie now, and what I wanted, which was virtually as dark and maybe, I think, a little more literary. Evelyn Mulwray killed her father. And had to go to jail. And Gittes was going to talk about it. She was going to be fried, because the identity of her daughter had to be protected. So it made a mess of it anyway. But, in retrospect, Roman was right. The movie needed a stark ending after such a complex story.
I wondered if Towne had any idea, at the first showing, what the movie would become. I figured on a “yes”—having seen the movie so many times, I could not see where the trouble might come from.
TOWNE
The first sneak? It did not go well. We had a horrendous score on the picture. By some guy that Roman knew. It was dissonant, weird, scratchy. Roman was momentarily enamored of it. He said the score was perfect. He was going off to direct an operetta at Spoletto, when mercifully, he ran into a grand old gentleman named Bronislau Kaper, who won an Oscar for his score of Lili, and he said, “Roman, that score is killing your picture.” Roman had great respect for him and he said, “Okay, we better get the score changed.” Jerry Goldsmith came in then, and did that great score. I was on the set when Jerry spotted it, and it was at that time when you could see the movie come to life. It was like you couldn’t see the movie with the other score, and now you could, and I thought, “Omigod, we may have a chance …”
I love movie stories like that. They let us know so much the media doesn’t. The media really is interested in cute stars and hits and occasionally (The Postman) disasters. But most movies come so close to disaster. Remember two things:
1. It is so hard to get a movie made.
2. It is so much harder to make a movie of quality.
In the great studio era, when MGM was churning out a movie a week, not such a problem. I’m thirty-five years into it and maybe I average one movie made per year. That’s counting everything—stuff I’ve written and stuff I’ve doctored and stuff I’ve consulted on—and I’ve been lucky.
And of all those, I love only two. Butch and The Princess Bride. For the rest, some good parts, but all I see are where I should have been better. Got a phone call from Rob Reiner three years after Princess Bride came out. In despair. He had just that night figured out where he should have placed the camera in a scene to make it better. Nuts? Sure. But a lot of phone calls like that get made.
The “She’s My Daughter, She’s My Sister” Scene
EXT. BUNGALOW-HOUSE, ADELAIDE DRIVE
Gittes pulls up in Mulwray’s Buick. He hurries to the front door, pounds on it.
The Chinese servant answers the door.
CHINESE SERVANT
You wait.
GITTES
(short sentence in Chinese)
You wait.
Gittes pushes past him. Evelyn, looking a little worn but glad to see him, hurries to the door. She takes Gittes’ arm.
EVELYN
How are you? I was calling you.
She looks at him, searching his face.
GITTES
--Yeah?
They move into the living room. Gittes is looking around it.
EVELYN
Did you get some sleep?
GITTES
Sure.
EVELYN
Did you have lunch? Kyo will fix you some-thing--
GITTES
(abruptly)
--where’s the girl?
EVELYN
Upstairs. Why?
GITTES
I want to see her.
EVELYN
…she’s having a bath now … why do you want to see her?
Gittes continues to looks around. He sees clothes laid out for packing in a bedroom off the living room.
GITTES
Going somewhere?
EVELYN
Yes, we’ve got a 4:30 train to catch. Why?
Gittes doesn’t answer. He goes to the phone and dials.
GITTES
--J.J. Gittes for Lieutenant Escobar…
EVELYN
What are you doing? What’s wrong? I told you we’ve got a 4:30--
GITTES
(cutting her off)
You’re going to miss your train!
(then, into the phone)
…Lou, meet me at 1412 Adelaide Drive--it’s above Santa Monica Canyon … yeah, soon as you can.
EVELYN
What did you do that for?
GITTES
(a moment, then)
You know any good criminal lawyers?
EVELYN
(puzzled)
--no…
GITTES
Don’t worry--I can recommend a couple. They’re expensive, but you can afford it.
EVELYN
(evenly but with great anger)
What the hell is this all about?
Gittes looks at her, then takes the handkerchief out of his breast pocket, unfolds it on a coffee table, revealing the bifocal glasses, one lens still intact. Evelyn stares dumbly at them.
GITTES
I found these in your backyard--in your fish pond. They belonged to your husband, didn’t they?…didn’t they?
EVELYN
I don’t know. I mean, yes, probably.
GITTES
--yes positively. That’s where he was drowned…
EVELYN
What are you saying?
GITTES
There’s no time for you to be shocked by the truth, Mrs. Mulwray. The coroner’s report proves he was killed in salt water. I want to know how it happened and why. I want to know before Escobar gets here. I want to hang on to my license.
EVELYN
I don’t know what
you’re talking about. This is the most insane … the craziest thing I ever…
Gittes has been in a state of near frenzy himself. He gets up, shakes her.
GITTES
Stop it!--I’ll make it easy--You were jealous, you fought, he fell, hit his head--it was an accident--but his girl is a witness. You’ve had to pay her off. You don’t have the stomach to harm her, but you’ve got the money to shut her up. Yes or no?
EVELYN
…no…
GITTES
Who is she? And don’t give me that crap about it being your sister. You don’t have a sister.
Evelyn is trembling.
EVELYN
I’ll tell you the truth.
Gittes smiles.
GITTES
That’s good. Now what’s her name?
EVELYN
--Katherine.
GITTES
Katherine. Katherine who?
EVELYN
--she’s my daughter.
Gittes stares at her. He’s been charged with anger, and when Evelyn says this, it explodes. He hits her full in the face. Evelyn stares back at him. The blow has forced tears to her eyes, but she makes no move, not even to defend herself.
GITTES
I said the truth!
EVELYN
--she’s my sister--
Gittes slaps her again.
EVELYN (CONT’D)
--she’s my daughter.
Gittes slaps her again.
EVELYN (CONT’D)
--my sister.
He hits her again.
EVELYN (CONT’D)
My daughter, my sister--
He belts her finally, knocking her into a cheap Chinese vase that shatters and she collapses on the sofa, sobbing.
GITTES
I said I want the truth.
EVELYN
(almost screaming it)
She’s my sister and my daughter!
Kyo comes running down the stairs.
EVELYN (CONT’D)
For God’s sake, Kyo, keep her upstairs. Go back!
Kyo turns after staring at Gittes for a moment, then goes back upstairs.
EVELYN (CONT’D)
--my father and I, understand, or is it too tough for you?
Gittes doesn’t answer.
EVELYN (CONT’D)
…he had a breakdown … the dam broke … my mother died … he became a little boy … I was fifteen … he’d ask me what to eat for breakfast, what clothes to wear! It happened … then I ran away…
GITTES
…to Mexico…
EVELYN
…Hollis came and took … care of me … after she was born … he said … he took care of her … I couldn’t see her … I wanted to but I couldn’t … I just want to see her once in a while … take care of her … that’s all … but I don’t want her to know … I don’t want her to know…
GITTES
…so that’s why you hate him…
Evelyn slowly looks up at Gittes.
EVELYN
--no … for turning his back on me after it happened! He couldn’t face it…
(weeping)
I hate him.
Gittes suddenly feels the need to loosen his tie.
GITTES
--yeah … where are you taking her now?
EVELYN
Back to Mexico.
GITTES
You can’t go by train. Escobar’ll be looking for you everywhere.
EVELYN
How about a plane?
GITTES
That’s worse. Just get out of here--walk out, leave everything.
EVELYN
I have to go home and get my things--
GITTES
--I’ll take care of it.
EVELYN
Where can we go?
GITTES
…where does Kyo live?
EVELYN
--with us.
GITTES
On his day off. Get the exact address.
EVELYN
--okay.
She stops suddenly.
EVELYN (CONT’D)
Those didn’t belong to Hollis.
For a moment Gittes doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Then he follows her gaze to the glasses lying on his handkerchief.
GITTES
How do you know?
EVELYN
He didn’t wear bifocals.
Gittes picks up the glasses, stares at the lens, is momentarily lost in them.
EVELYN
from the stairs. She has her arm around Katherine.
EVELYN
Say hello to Mr. Gittes, sweetheart.
KATHERINE
(from the stairs)
Hello.
GITTES
rises a little shakily from the arm of the sofa.
GITTES
Hello.
With her arm around the girl, talking in Spanish, Evelyn hurries her toward the bedroom. In a moment she reemerges.
EVELYN
(calling down)
--he lives at 1712 Alameda … do you know where that is?
REACTION—GITTES
He nods slowly.
GITTES
--sure. It’s in Chinatown.
I just saw The Matrix, which has the best special effects I’ve ever seen, and one of the things I wondered was this: How long will they hold? How long before they look just as dated as King Kong seems to us today?
A friend of mine just saw, on television and for the very first time, Titanic. And are you shocked if I tell you he was disappointed? I don’t think you can see Titanic anywhere today and have it work as it once did. (I know, I know, the talk scenes were an embarrassment.) But when I went, just after it opened, I was surprised and moved by the last forty minutes. It was this very troubled movie that turned out well. Now, with all the hype and honors, I wonder. We know too much about it—how they did the effects, what a miserable shoot it was, how cute Leo is, what an asshole James Cameron turned out to be—anyway, I think its time is over, in the sense of surprise.
And I wonder about these two movies in the same way. Towne thinks if Faye Dunaway had had sex with her pop, John Huston, today they would end up on Oprah Winfrey, or, if Oprah wouldn’t have them, then Geraldo. Towne feels there is so little shame in our world now, it damages the possibility of drama at this level.
Take Littleton, an uncontested nightmare, but is it any more lunatic than the fact that several of the networks sent out press releases afterward proudly announcing their rise in ratings since they started covering the massacre?
What’s so awful about this is that people are taking the insanity for granted.
A news event like Littleton, well, of course, that must be written about. What is so terrible is that after the news has been given, after all the pictures shown, they keep on showing them again and again. OJ, Di, Monica. Katie flies out for the interviews and Diane sheds such tears and Reba flies out—first telling the world what she is doing—to sing “Amazing Grace” at the second funeral.
Hey, what about the dead kids, anybody give a shit about them?
And I assume you must be wondering, Why am I telling you all this? I guess the answer is, I wonder if it is affecting screenwriting. Is the second-rateness of the world right now going to drag us storytellers down?
The answer is, I don’t know, but I do know we have to try harder. It’s easier, as the audience dumbs down and expects less, to be satisfied with less than our best work.
I hope Towne is wrong in his feelings about our lack of shame. When I look at this great scene, when I feel the awful pain of the Dunaway character looking at Nicholson and saying, after the revelation, “My father and I, understand, or is it too tough for you?”
Or is it too tough for you? Those words still echo inside me every time I watch the scene, and I go to my own life and wonder, could you have faced this? What would you do if that happened? My mind goes spinning away, visiting all kind of dark places we al
l have and hide.
And what about Marge? Where did she come from? And how wonderful that we have, at last, an American Sherlock Holmes, though ours is a woman. And pregnant. And kind.
Mr. Ziegler, referred to earlier, was once told that technology was going to change everything. He shook his head no. “I don’t care,” he began, “what you say. I don’t care if your fucking technology figures out a way to beam movies from the moon directly into our brains.” And here he paused a moment before finishing with this: “People are still going to have to tell stories.”
Hear, hear.
* * *
La Vida
As I was walking out of my building yesterday, a doorman signaled for me to stop. I did. Then he opened the New York Daily News, indicated something for me to read. It was a cartoon. It showed a man sitting at a computer. Ordinary nerdy writer-type guy with one unusual physical attribute: the top of his head was open and his brain was gone. On further inspection, he had taken his brain, stuck it in an ashtray. The caption was something like this:
How to be a successful screenwriter.
That was yesterday.
Today I am having morning coffee in a little place out on Long Island. I pick up a weekly newspaper, come awake reading an obit of Alan Pakula, who had a house in this area, was a true gentleman, and died in a freak car accident. Something fell off the vehicle ahead of him, and, as if aimed by Lucifer, came through his windshield and killed Pakula.
Okay. I am reading the article and I am thinking of the line I heard spoken by Walter Payton, one of my heroes, and it is this:
Tomorrow is promised to no one.
(I managed to sneak that into Absolute Power, the Eastwood–Ed Harris scene in the coffee shop. Made the scene for me.)
Okay, back with the obit, talking of the many achievements of Pakula’s career. (A lot of people don’t realize what a wonderful producer he was. You love To Kill a Mockingbird? If you don’t, seek help immediately. Well, Alan produced that.) Now the obit is coming to an end. Here is the last paragraph.
“Two such characters are present in what is likely to emerge over time as Pakula’s greatest triumph, All the President’s Men. Adapted from the Robert Woodward–Carl Bernstein account of their investigation into the Watergate break-in, Pakula’s movie has so many elements necessary in a first rate movie that it’s a virtual how- to manual. Into it, Pakula has packed a convoluted yet clear narrative, suspense, the grit of the best documentaries, mystery (the shadowy appearance of Deep Throat), sound and editing finesse and colorful characters played—even in the smallest roles—by fine actors.”
Which Lie Did I Tell? Page 22
