by Greg Laurie
Producer Vincent M. Fennelly chose McQueen for the lead role, he said, because Josh Randall “was a little guy. Everyone’s against him except the audience. And McQueen was offbeat. He wasn’t the best-looking guy in the world, but he had a nice kind of animal instinct. He could be nice but with some sort of menace underneath.”
McQueen’s Josh Randall preferred to bring the bad guys he tracked back alive, and it was his inherent decency that made Wanted: Dead or Alive so appealing. That’s why I tuned in every Saturday night, sandwiched between my granddad and grandmother on the couch. There was a visceral connection between the man in the cowboy hat and me.
“McQueen was offbeat. He wasn’t the best-looking guy in the world, but he had a nice kind of animal instinct. He could be nice but with some sort of menace underneath.”
To give me some insight on the star of Wanted: Dead or Alive, I turn to Loren Janes, who was Steve McQueen’s longtime friend and favorite stunt double. We’re meeting at the entrance of the CBS Studios on Radford Avenue in Studio City, the former site of Four Star Studios where Janes first met McQueen in 1958. Loren was a world-class athlete and Olympic fencer who became one of the top stuntmen in Hollywood. For a moment I am stunned because he looks just like McQueen.
For a guy who longed for showbiz success, McQueen wasn’t too thrilled with it once it came. He was quite uneasy at first about working in a Hollywood “television factory.” He liked the “bread” and perks of being on television, but he wanted to be a movie star, and not many of those made the leap from the boob-tube to the silver screen. Yet McQueen liked and identified with the character of Josh Randall.
“[He] seemed to be a loner,” McQueen said, “a guy who made his own decisions; and he didn’t have a big star on his chest. This appealed to me.”
Stuntmen did not appeal to him, and on his very first day on the set of Wanted: Dead or Alive, McQueen fired three of them. One of them was even former Academy Award-winning actor Richard Farnsworth, who started his career performing stunts and, ironically, would not only end up in one of McQueen’s last films, Tom Horn, but become a trusted friend.
When Janes arrived at Four Star that day in 1958, he immediately reported to director Tommy Carr. As they discussed the first scene in which he would be doubling for McQueen, Janes was very much aware of the star standing nearby staring at him. Janes was dressed exactly like him, this leading man who wanted the public to believe that no one doubled him when it came time to do the stunts.
Stuntmen did not appeal to him, and on his very first day on the set of Wanted: dead or Alive, McQueen fired three of them.
Janes performed a series of flawless stunts that even astounded the star, thus cementing a friendship that lasted up till McQueen’s death twenty-two years later.
Not surprisingly, McQueen butted heads with everybody else connected with the series. “He drove them all nuts,” recalls Loren with a chuckle. “Producers, writers, actors—he argued with everybody. But he had a good sense about things. Plus, he’d been around. He knew the bad part of life and the sad part. His attitude was, ‘I’m here to do a job. All the nice guys in Hollywood are standing in the unemployment line.’”
That was McQueen the actor. Impossible.
But as a person, he was often moved by the plight of people in need and acted accordingly—and anonymously. Loren tells me that while filming The Sand Pebbles in Taiwan seven years later, McQueen quietly donated twenty-five thousand dollars to a local orphanage, which a Catholic priest ran and which catered mainly to young girls whose families forced them to turn to prostitution. He says it was the first of many such donations, and that he supported the orphanage for a good decade until the priest passed away in the late 1970s.
That was McQueen the actor. Impossible.
“Steve was a very generous man,” says Loren. “He would give the shirt off his back to anyone who needed it.”
I find this to be a fascinating trait of McQueen’s. Instead of press releases and photo ops to show a celebrity “giving back,” as is so common today, he flew under the radar, never even revealing the things he did for the less fortunate.
On another movie set in a rural town, recollects Janes, “Steve noticed the town’s park had no playground equipment. A week after we left, a large truck arrived at the park, bringing swings, slides, monkey bars, teeter-totters, and a small merry-go-round. No one knew who paid for it—except Steve and me.”
While filming McQueen’s final movie, The Hunter, in a rough section of Chicago, a group of young boys playing football in a nearby empty lot recognized Steve and threw him the ball. It was old and tattered, stuffed with rags and held together with wire.
“Steve handed me hundreds of dollars in cash,” recalls Loren, “and I went to a sporting goods store and purchased footballs, baseball bats, mitts, and baseballs,” Loren says. “Delivery men brought the bounty to a dirt lot the next afternoon. Steve and I hid in a van and watched the kids rip open the boxes, screaming in excitement. I looked over at Steve and his eyes were moist.”
“Delivery men brought the bounty to a dirt lot the next afternoon. Steve and I hid in a van and watched the kids rip open the boxes, screaming in excitement. I looked over at Steve and his eyes were moist.”
He did it because he was once one of them. He understood. And he never forgot where he came from.
What a mercurial human being was Hollywood’s most famous bounty hunter. So much of McQueen’s behavior was abhorrent at the time, but then there were these intermittent glimmers of humanity, baring a heart and soul full of compassion, empathy, and charity.
Yet sadly, over the next few years the ever-striving star seemed to do everything in his power to sublimate if not sacrifice these good things to his overweening ambition and need for instant gratification.
THE AMERICAN DREAM
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At the start of the 1960s, Steve McQueen stood on the precipice of the American dream, albeit a gilded, much more fantastic version of the one most people have. He was starring in a popular network television series that afforded him a nice home in the Hollywood Hills and a couple of sports cars that enabled him to pursue his passion of auto racing. He was married to a successful, supportive, and nurturing woman who put up with his wild mood swings and unpredictable temper. He was blessed with two children—Terry Leslie, born June 5, 1959, and Chadwick Steven, born December 28, 1960. As it was said of McQueen at the time, “Every man wants to be like him, and every woman wants to be with him.”
Simply put, he had it all—looks, fame, security, love, and family.
So why, then, wasn’t he happy and fulfilled?
Steve McQueen was not the first to deal with this conundrum. Nor would he be the last. This quest for happiness goes back as far as the recorded word. Augustine (354–430 AD) said, “Everyman, whatsoever his condition, desires to be happy.” Nearly thirteen centuries later, French philosopher and mathematician Blaise Pascal wrote, “All men seek happiness. This is without exception!”
The lead singer in one of the biggest rock bands in the world said, “You ask me if I’m happy? Listen: I’ve bought myself a Rolls Royce. I’m part of the biggest band in the world, and I’m about to live in a luxurious mansion. Am I happy with that? No—I want more!”
The lead singer in one of the biggest rock bands in the world said, “You ask me if I’m happy? Listen: I’ve bought myself a Rolls Royce. I’m part of the biggest band in the world, and I’m about to live in a luxurious mansion. Am I happy with that? No—I want more!”
Jack Higgins is one of the most successful authors on earth. His thriller novels have sold more than 150 million copies in sixty different languages. When asked by a magazine writer what he knew now that he wished he’d known earlier in life, the accomplished author responded, “I wish I had known that when you get to the top, there is nothing there.”
That’s the way fame works. It’s one thing to climb to the top of the hill; it’s another thing to stay there.
Wha
t Steve McQueen was searching for, and for that matter what all of us are searching for, is something that cannot be found in material possessions, experiences, or even relationships.
Because deep down inside, we are all searching for God.
C. S. Lewis wrote, “God designed the human machine to run on Himself. He Himself is the fuel our spirits were designed to burn, or the food our spirits were designed to feed on. There is no other. That is why it is just no good asking God to make us happy in our own way without bothering about religion. God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there.”
Up to this point in his life, Steve McQueen had so many disappointments—from a mother who was mostly a mother in name only to a father who never was. McQueen had hardened himself to survive, but deep down inside he was still like a boy looking for a father.
Bottom line, Steve was searching for God. He just didn’t know it. At least not yet.
Now that Wanted: Dead or Alive had made him a star, McQueen acted the part to the hilt. On the set he butted into everyone’s business, demanding that even the smallest aspects of the show’s production be done his way. He personally liked John Robinson, the show’s producer-writer, but nagged, criticized, and humiliated him to the point that at the end of the second season, Robinson went on permanent sick leave.
Bottom line, Steve was searching for God. He just didn’t know it. At least not yet.
Flush with cash from the show, McQueen bought himself a 1958 Porsche Speedster and started racing on weekends in events sponsored by the Sports Car Club of America. He won his very first race on May 30, 1959, and showed so much skill on the track that he was voted “Rookie of the Year” by the American Sports Car Association.
He loved speed and competition, and over the years would race cars and motorcycles all over the world. An inveterate tinkerer, McQueen was never happier than when rebuilding antique cars and motorcycles.
The racing itself, he once said, “keeps my equilibrium intact. It makes it difficult to believe I’m God’s gift to humanity. When you’re racing a motorcycle, the guy on the next bike doesn’t care who you are. And if he beats you in the race, well, it means he’s a better man than you are. And he’s not afraid to tell you that you’re lousy.”
As for TV, McQueen figured it was strictly for actors who’d gone as far as they could, like Clayton “Lone Ranger” Moore. He was in a hurry to graduate to the big screen, and he got his chance when director John Sturges, impressed with Steve’s looks and potential, cast him in his 1959 film Never So Few. Frank Sinatra, the star of the movie, lacked McQueen’s fire-in-the-belly when it came to the craft of acting and didn’t mind giving Steve all the rope he wanted. The result was a memorable performance. He turned the wisecracking, scene-stealing supply sergeant into the forerunner of the roles he would later play in almost all of his movies—cool, understated, and extremely at ease with a gun in his hand or behind the wheel.
McQueen was never happier than when rebuilding antique cars and motorcycles.
McQueen also drew raves from critics. “[McQueen] possesses that combination of smooth-rough charm that suggests star possibilities,” noted the New York Herald Tribune, while The Hollywood Reporter called the picture a “catapult to stardom.”
Sinatra’s generosity extended far beyond MGM’s back lot. Not long after the film wrapped, he invited Steve and Neile back east to spend a gala-filled week with him and his entourage. The McQueens were taken backstage to Sinatra’s homecoming concert in Atlantic City and accompanied him to the glittery Never So Few premiere at Radio City Music Hall.
Getting to hang with Sinatra for a week opened a picture window on the A-lister’s lifestyle, which included private jets, limousines, red-carpet events, screaming fans, opened doors, and plenty of respect and fawning admiration. Steve got a whiff of real stardom up close, and it must have been intoxicating.
“I want some of that,” he whispered to his wife Neile. A few years later, those same courtesies would be extended to McQueen for the rest of his life.
Next came another Sturges film, the epic western The Magnificent Seven, whose release in 1960 stamped McQueen as the movie star he always envisioned himself to be. He was part of an ensemble cast that included Oscar winner Yul Brynner, Charles Bronson, James Coburn, Robert Vaughn, Horst Buchholz, Brad Dexter, and Eli Wallach. Topping professionals of this stature in front of the camera was a constant dogfight, and with the somewhat tacit support of Sturges, Steve used every trick in the book to do it. Brynner famously resented and raged at the upstart’s tactics but was powerless to overcome them.
Steve got a whiff of real stardom up close, and it must have been intoxicating. “I want some of that,” he whispered to his wife Neile.
Having attained big screen success at last, McQueen had no more interest in or use for Wanted: Dead or Alive. So when CBS reluctantly pulled the plug on the show on March 29, 1961, he celebrated his release from living rooms all over America with a mighty whoop.
In 1961–62 he made The Honeymoon Machine, Hell Is for Heroes, and The War Lover. While filming The War Lover in England, McQueen competed in several car races with such panache that he was offered a contract to race full-time for the British Motor Corporation. He wrestled over the proposition.
“They gave me a weekend to make up my mind,” McQueen told a reporter. “I spent two full days in a sweat, trying to decide whether I wanted to go into pro racing, earning my money on the track, or whether to continue being an actor. It was a very tough decision to make, because I didn’t know if I was an actor who raced or a racer who acted. But I had Neile and the two children to consider, and that made the difference.”
Considering the fact that Steve McQueen was never properly fathered himself, he chose to be a highly involved father, often taking his son and daughter and wife with him to movie sets and spending a lot of time with them.
Glad to hear him say that. Considering the fact that Steve McQueen was never properly fathered himself, he chose to be a highly involved father, often taking his son and daughter and wife with him to movie sets and spending a lot of time with them. As a fatherless son myself, I can completely relate. I wanted to give my two sons the life I never had. Steve seemed to want the same thing and was deeply loved by his children.
Therefore, he ultimately stuck with acting—and was glad he did when John Sturges came around again with the script for The Great Escape. McQueen didn’t hesitate to sign on, recognizing the film as his opportunity to achieve a new level of stardom, thanks to a barbed-wire fence, a motorbike, a steely look of determination, and the most breathtaking leap of faith ever seen in movies.
It isn’t likely that McQueen recognized The Great Escape as a providential gift. But the only god that Steve knew at this time in his life was called Success, and he worshipped it with all his might.
A MAN AND HIS CASTLE
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When Steve McQueen’s character Virgil Hilts soared over that barbed-wire fence in The Great Escape, it was a metaphorical jump as well as a cinematic one.
The leap (actually made by stuntman Bud Ekins) took Steve from mere television celebrity to international movie star. That had never happened before, and now McQueen was about to enter his own golden era.
If the 1950s were about McQueen learning his craft, and the early ’60s about his rise to stardom, the rest of the decade marked his full ascension to power and dominance. The string of back-to-back hits he assembled after The Great Escape would see him achieve everything he wanted, although there would be costs along the way. The actor who once grabbed any role he could get—including the lead role in The Blob—now had producers shamelessly pleading with him just to read their scripts.
The roles McQueen chose—a brooding musician (Love with the Proper Stranger), a loner card shark (The Cincinnati Kid), a naïve half-breed-turned-ruthless avenger (Nevada Smith), reluctant war hero (The Sand Pebbles), white-collar bank robber (The Thomas Crown Affair), and laconic cop (Bullitt
)—extended his range of characters and performances to a level unsurpassed, forming an archetype still referenced and revered by actors today. McQueen consolidated his image as the leading man of the era, the quintessential action star of the twentieth century and, most importantly, became global cinema’s King of Cool.
When Steve McQueen’s character Virgil Hilts soared over that barbed-wire fence in The Great Escape, it was a metaphorical jump as well as a cinematic one.
But a king needs a castle, and in 1963 McQueen bought his. The three-and-a-halfacre estate at 27 Oakmont Drive in exclusive Brentwood cost him a quarter of a million dollars. Today the place is worth about seven million.
He later recalled, “We had to get out of our other house because it was too small, and we started looking around, and this real estate lady, a very nice one, said she knew a house we’d love and she might be able to get it for us.”
What the very nice lady didn’t mention was the asking price. As the McQueens took a tour of the 5,560-square-foot, Spanish-Mediterranean-style home with five bedrooms, Olympic-size swimming pool, tennis court, and panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean, Steve decided it was probably way beyond their means. But a big Hollywood star never acknowledges such a thing to anyone, and before they left he had signed on the dotted line.
Right now the Bullitt is parked outside the front gate of this fabulous estate, just above Sunset Boulevard, which is quite fitting, considering that I’m meeting actor Edd “Kookie” Byrnes here.
Star of the popular TV show 77 Sunset Strip, Edd is one of the few actors of that era who chose to remain in Los Angeles. The city is overcrowded, overpriced, and gets harder to navigate all the time. More than anything else, the acting business has changed since Edd made girls go, “like, Wowsville,” just by running a comb through his hair and talking nonsensical hip.
