Chapter IV: Part 4

She had a competitor in the same line of business who one evening telephoned a visiting English knight in the middle of a dinner party to say she’d seen his name in the papers and could she provide him with a steady companion for his lonely hours.

In Beverly Hills you can call on furriers who’ll be glad to sell a mink coat at $20,000, a chinchilla wrap for $15,000, or an ermine-covered toilet seat. You can have your hair dressed by George Masters, who’ll bill you up to you-name-it for a home appointment, or a make-up by Gene Hibbs, who invented an ingenious, invisible bit of nylon mesh with a rubber band suspended from tiny hooks pulled up through your hair which, for special occasions, takes more years off your looks than plastic surgery.

If you’re a celebrity anywhere, your cost of living takes a leap, but in our town it jumps sky high. Any star looking to buy a house tries to keep his identity secret until closing day or else the price will be doubled. A star of the opposite sex will be charged $5000 by her obstetrician for delivering a baby.

When Norma Shearer was first pregnant, she was aghast to hear what the bill would be. “Very well,” the doctor compromised, “I’ll gamble with you. I’ll charge $5000 for a boy, $1000 for a girl. Okay?” Norma lost the bet when Irving Thalberg, Jr., was born.

Some of our citizens fall into the habits of European royalty and carry no money whatever in their pockets. Shirley MacLaine was working on _The Children’s Hour_ when Sam Goldwyn invited her to dine tête-à-tête with him and see a private showing of his old-time movie, _Stella Dallas_. It provided an evening out as unsophisticated as a flour sack.

She told me: “While we were looking at the picture, I started to scratch. I was wearing a wool dress I hadn’t had on for months and apparently it had gotten moths or something. I was afraid he’d think I wasn’t enjoying _Stella_. When we got out, he said, ‘How about a soda?’”

In his Thunderbird they drove to Will Wright’s on Sunset Boulevard. At the next table some youngsters were having a ball burning holes in soda straws to make improvised flutes, then blowing tunes on them. Sam asked for a lesson and soon sat in to play his own straw flute.

“The girl came with our orders,” Shirley reported, “and we ate them. Then he went through all his pockets before he finally said, ‘You got any money on you?’ But I’d left my bag at the studio.”

He called over the waitress, who wore her name on a lapel pin: “Nancy, have you ever been out with a male friend and been so embarrassed because he didn’t have any money with him?” Nancy smiled sympathetically. “How about if I sign an I.O.U. and have my wife, Frances, come down tomorrow to pay you?”

That was agreed. Sam leaned over confidentially toward Shirley. “Since we’re getting ’em free, let’s have a couple more.” They had three each before they went outside and flagged down his chauffeur, who’d followed them in another car.

“You go up and tell Mrs. Goldwyn what happened here tonight,” Sam instructed. “Say Nancy had to trust us for six sodas at thirty-five cents apiece. You come back with the money and see if you can’t scrounge seventy-five cents for a tip--but don’t tell Frances about the tip.”

* * * * *

Evenings were known to be gaudier in the old days. The Basil Rathbones gave a Louis XIV masquerade, and I was set to go as a shepherdess complete with live lamb, who had his hoofs gilded and fleece shampooed. I didn’t get there, but that’s a later story. Mrs. George Temple, Shirley’s mother, went to her first and only big Hollywood party and left a new ermine coat on a bed on top of a pile of others. When the time came to leave, she discovered that one distinguished guest had been taken violently ill in the bedroom with disastrous results to the furs, her ermine suffering most of all.

For one revel at his Mulholland Drive home, Errol Flynn imported a transvestite fairy dressed so skillfully as a girl that nobody guessed the secret. Errol had his swimming pool lit from below and brought on a team of high divers to brighten the evening. When his guests went on chattering, taking not a blind bit of notice of the performance, he dived headlong into the water in protest and refused to speak to anybody except the divers for the duration of the party.

“You’re so generous in many ways and so stingy in others,” I told him, years later. “You spent thousands on those parties, yet you wouldn’t buy a girl a box of candy or send her flowers when you could have saved yourself at least five lawsuits with a single rose each time.”

He worshiped John Barrymore and deliberately started the rumor that he was John’s illegitimate offspring. They came to a parting of the ways, however, when he invited “Father” up to Mulholland Drive. John, who was incontinent toward the end, forgot himself as he sat on a beautiful settee in the lavishly furnished living room that was Errol’s pride. That was the last time John was invited.

Water, as well as drugs and alcohol, attracted Errol. He was sun-bathing mother-naked one day on a sailboat in the Mediterranean when a sight-seeing craft loaded with American schoolteachers came by. He chose that moment to stand up and stretch. One gasping teacher fell overboard, covered in blushes, and he promptly plunged in to retrieve her.

Errol used to live directly across the street from me during his marriage to Lili Damita. All I had to do to pick up an item or two for the column was sit by my bedroom window and listen to them shrieking at each other. I got the low-down on their separation by just lying in bed and listening. It was a screaming, juicy bout.

I was all set to put it on the wire the next morning, when Errol came over in dressing gown and slippers at 7 A.M., got me out of bed, and begged me not to print it, saying they hadn’t even talked about a property settlement. Like a fool, I promised to keep silent until he gave me the cue. But he couldn’t keep his own secret and told Louella, who scooped me with my own story. I could have throttled him--but that’s Hollywood.

The last time I saw Errol was in Paris, when he was making _The Roots of Heaven_. He wanted his teen-age popsie to stay in the room while I interviewed him. She wouldn’t go, so I did, interview or no interview. But I kept a soft spot for him in my heart in spite of the several kinds of ruin he brought on himself.

* * * * *

After ten o’clock on a weekday night, Podunk would probably look like Broadway compared with Beverly Hills, which is strictly a roll-up-the-sidewalk community. After that witching hour, police in prowl cars stop anyone they see out walking to ask if they’re residents and, if they’re not and have no good reason for being around, escort them to the nearest bus stop.

By ten-thirty virtually every household has gone to bed. Working actors and actresses have to be up by six or six-thirty. Then it’s a cold shower to get the eyes open, a shampoo and a finger wave in the case of actresses. Most women have a shampoo every morning; blondes from necessity because they use gold dust in their hair, brunettes to make their hair shiny. Half a dozen eggs makes the basis of many a brunet shampoo.

Under the dryer, the Beverly Hills workingwoman takes the juice of a lemon and a cup of hot water. Then a look over the script for the day’s shooting while she downs orange juice and black coffee. After leaving instructions for the cook and servants--and nurse, if there are young children--she drives to the studio, where curls are combed out and make-up applied. If she’s wearing an evening gown, she’s whitened to the waist; it’s cold and sticky.

She’s squeezed into her costume, and a stand-by car takes her to the sound stage. Director, crew, and rest of the cast say their good mornings. Because their moods will be affected by hers, she has to set the emotional climate for the day--no headaches, heartaches, or bellyaches for her.

If she knows her lines, some other cast members may not. So the company rehearses until everybody’s letter perfect. Lights are set, sound adjusted, cameras roll. Then somebody fluffs a cue or a move, and that’s contagious. “Dear God, don’t let it happen to me,” she mutters. The same scene may be done over forty times before the director is satisfied. Some of them are sadists, who’ll keep their players sweating just to prove who’s boss.

At noon, lunch is called. Her dress is usually so tight that a cup of hot soup, green salad with cottage cheese, and more black coffee is as much as she can stand. It’s hard to relax after that bit of bunny food.

Maybe there’s a long-distance call waiting from some relative who never did a lick of work, complaining that the allowance will have to be upped because baby Peggy needs braces or the car has to have new tires or Auntie May has set her heart on a Florida vacation.

Then she hurries back to work. If she happens to have a crying scene to do, it will be easy. When she comes out of it, she catches the eye of an extra whose thoughts are as plain as if shouted aloud: “Were you ever rotten in that! I could show them how to handle it.” When our girl’s nose, eyes, and mascara are all running simultaneously, the head of the studio walks on with a banker from New York.

So it goes until six o’clock, when she goes to the projection room to see the previous day’s rushes, then back to the dressing room to remove make-up. If she’s a blonde, the gold dust is brushed out, hot oil applied, and her head’s wrapped up in a bandanna like a Christmas pudding.

Home at last, where the servants are eating high on the hog, but she has a tray with hot broth, one lamb chop, spinach or string beans, and perhaps a dab of apple sauce. There’s time to play with the children for half an hour, look over tomorrow’s script, sign dozens of checks a secretary has laid out in a folder for her. Then a body massage, and what’s left of her crawls to bed.

Is it any wonder that there hasn’t been a real, big-star hostess in our town since Doug Fairbanks deserted Mary Pickford? Hundreds have tried, but nobody’s succeeded, not even Mary. As Mrs. Buddy Rogers, she lost the glory.

Mrs. Kirk Douglas and her friend, the present Mrs. Gregory Peck, have their dreams along those lines. Veronique pretended to be a writer so she could get a private interview with Gregory when he visited Paris with his first wife, Greta, and openly told a companion, Brenda Helser of _Diplomat_ magazine: “I’m going to be the next Mrs. Peck.” Her plan worked like a charm.

The current Mrs. Edward G. Robinson would like to be a hostess with the mostest, but she has not attained the status of Gladys, his former wife, who entertained in great style and set him going on his way to being a great art collector. It was Gladys who had the knowledge and chose most of the paintings. Collecting pictures is a neat trick for cutting down on income tax, highly recommended by financial consultants if you can afford it. You donate the paintings to a museum as an act of charity, but have the pleasure of them hanging on your walls for a lifetime.

The William Goetzes mix social ambitions with art collecting and what may be lightheartedly called “cultural leadership.” The walls of their home--it takes seven servants to run it--are adorned like a museum with works by Monet, Matisse, Roualt, Dufy, Lautrec, and a reputed Van Gogh, which Bill bought for $50,000 in 1948 from a New York gallery. When the painter’s nephew had doubts about its authenticity, the Metropolitan Museum assembled a jury of three experts. After they’d pored over the canvas, they declared that they, too, were unwilling to accept it as an original. A European art critic, Dr. Jacob Bart de la Faille, who had vouched for the picture’s genuineness in the first place, insisted that he’d made no mistake and the buyer hadn’t been taken. Then five European experts took a look and said it was a Van Gogh, sure enough. Where that leaves Bill Goetz, I don’t know, because he hasn’t told me. We aren’t in each other’s confidence and never have been.

He married Edith, Louis B. Mayer’s older daughter--Irene, the other, became David Selznick’s wife. When Edie’s engagement was announced, Louis put Ida Koverman in charge of wedding arrangements, with orders to invite all the old-line Los Angeles socialites. As Herbert Hoover’s former aide, Ida knew them; Louis did not. Edie was always drawn by pictures of one sort or another. She paid almost daily visits to Ida’s office, whose walls were hung with autographed pictures from the biggest people in America, to bombard her with fresh instructions.

She stopped in front of the then President’s photograph (“To my dear Ida ... Herbert Hoover”) and asked: “Have you invited him?”

“You don’t know him,” Ida said.

“You do and father does. Send him an invitation. I’d like to see what he sends me.”

“But he’s the President of the United States.”

“Invite him, anyway.”

Hoover didn’t attend the wedding, but Edie got a present from him. She got presents from everybody. There must have been twenty showers given for her. If you were on the MGM payroll, as I was as an actress then, there was somebody to tell you what to take or send for all occasions.

Came the night of the wedding and sit-down supper in the Biltmore ballroom. I was seated at a side table when Ben Meyer, a local banker, came over and asked me to join his group at a more elevated spot. “We don’t know any of these people,” he said. “Will you point out the stars for us?”

Partly as a result of making my first visit to the place as DeWolf Hopper’s wife when he was an idol in the theater, partly as a result of having Harry Lombard, the Boston banker, and his wife as friends, I knew my way around Los Angeles society. But I had to tell Ben Meyer: “I’ll have to get Mr. Mayer’s permission first.”

“You’ll have to what?” he exploded.

“He employs me, remember? Social or anything else, I’ll have to ask him.”

Louis couldn’t understand how I could have a banker asking after me.

“These are my friends, Louis: lawyers, doctors, professional people. They’ve no idea who your stars are because they never see your pictures.” Permission granted, grudgingly. With the Meyers, I sat at the gayest, most gossipy table in the room. At the end of the evening they knew the names of all the stars and most of their histories.

Louis and his son-in-law were thick as thieves for years. Mayer bought race horses, Goetz bought race horses. At one Academy Award banquet Louis put his arm around Bill: “If you just go on the way you’re going, you’ll be a greater man than I ever was.”

William wanted to head his own film company just like his brother-in-law, David. With Louis behind him anything was possible. It looked like a wide-open opportunity when Darryl Zanuck left Twentieth Century-Fox to join the Army in World War II. Louis began maneuvers with his partner at Metro, Nick Schenck, of Loew’s Inc., whose brother Joe was board chairman at Fox. Goetz would replace Zanuck while Darryl was in Washington, D.C. in uniform.

I got wind of it and flashed a “hurry home” message to Darryl, who was on duty in Washington. He raced back three days before the intended change-over. Shortly thereafter it was announced that Mr. Goetz had resigned from Twentieth Century-Fox, to become production chief at Universal-International.

Ten years later, in 1953, he quit that job, too. A controlling interest in the studio had been bought by Milton Rackmil, who found in the course of negotiating a new contract for his head of production that Goetz set his price at $5000 a week while fellow executives got less than $2000. Later he had a spell at Columbia, and now Bill Goetz sits on a bank’s board, has real-estate interests. The movies lost their attraction when he underestimated Louis, a fierce Republican, and backed Adlai Stevenson in 1948 despite his father-in-law’s pleas. Louis did not speak to him after that. When he died in 1957, his will left $500,000 to his daughter Irene and similar bequests to her sons by Selznick. He cut out Edie and Bill Goetz and their children entirely.

* * * * *

Los Angeles society is much like the frog that wanted to inflate himself bigger than a bull. New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Detroit all have social leaders with recognizable names that stand for something in America and, in some cases, around the world. Los Angeles is different, for all its size. Outside our city limits, its “society” with few exceptions doesn’t mean much, primarily because our standard isn’t “Who are you?” but “How much have you got?”

In the early days Los Angeles socialites lent their gardens and exteriors of their houses to movie making on a business basis, donating proceeds to charity. But they didn’t invite picture people in to dine with them. The dividing line still exists, though it’s narrower than it used to be. For one thing, international leaders and celebrities don’t give a damn about Los Angeles society when they visit here. They want to meet and be entertained by the stars, because they give the best parties and are more fun to be with.

Now Sam Goldwyn mingles with Mrs. Norman Chandler and the music crowd since they’re both deeply involved in fund raising for the music center housing the Los Angeles Philharmonic and the San Francisco Opera Company. Danny Kaye and Jack Benny conduct concerts for the symphony. One that Danny did brought in $185,000. But movie people can no more get into the Los Angeles Country Club for either love or money than they could when Cecil De Mille battered in vain on its doors.

Harpo Marx, whom I adore, once told me he couldn’t understand why he couldn’t join a local country dub. “That’s easy,” was my reply. “You belong to a different club, where they don’t take in Christians. So in a way they’re sort of even.”

“I never thought of that,” said he. The following day, Eddie Mannix, a feisty Irishman, joined Harpo’s country club.

Generally speaking, Los Angeles society in the beginning would have nothing to do with the movie crowd; now the movie industry has little to do with Los Angeles society. In some cases the bar went up because they worked in movies, sometimes because they were Jews. Our town and every suburban Podunk across the nation have something in common with that prejudice.

Hollywood treats the subject simultaneously as a joke, a jinx, and a business risk. Sinatra and the Clan allow themselves the privilege of kidding each other as “wops” and “kikes” but protest publicly against racial discrimination. One comedy star doesn’t wince when men on his payroll refer to him as “Super-Jew.”

When Louis B. Mayer first saw Danny Thomas, who is a professional Lebanese, on a night-club stage, he liked everything about him except his looks. “I would put you under contract immediately,” he told Danny, “except you look too Jewish. I want you to have some surgery to straighten out your nose.”

He imagined it was doubt about the possible result that made Danny decline with thanks. “Well, then, I understand you have a brother. Here’s what we’ll do for you. We’ll have his nose done _first_ as a sample.” He was amazed when that offer was turned down, too.

Because of his “lady complex,” I was approached by Louis, who begged me to get his daughters into our most private private school, whose principal was a friend of mine. There was no point in mincing words. “Mr. Mayer,” I said, “they don’t accept them.”

“But they’ll take my daughters,” he snapped. “Can’t you tell the head mistress how important I am?”

“It won’t do any good. You can’t win that one. They will not take Jews.” He had no choice but to accept the truth, no matter how disagreeable.

When Samuel Goldwyn was preparing _Guys and Dolls_, I heard he was talking about having Frank Sinatra play Nathan Detroit, the gambling man, brilliantly played by Sam Levene on Broadway. I bearded Samuel in his den. “Sinatra’s no more fitted for that part than I am. He’s a great entertainer, but not in that role. Nobody but nobody can play it like Sam Levene. Why don’t you get him?”

“You can’t have a Jew playing a Jew,” Sam said calmly. “It wouldn’t work on the screen.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “What was that you said?” He repeated his words. “I could slay you for that remark,” I exploded.

“But you won’t.”

“But someday I might,” I warned.

So in Hollywood only Christians are allowed to portray Jews. Gertrude Berg was thrown out of _A Majority of One_ to make room for Rosalind Russell--Gertrude read about the switch in the New York _Times_ after she’d been promised the part by Dore Schary. Otto Preminger’s casting transformed _Exodus_ into a Protestant epic. _Anne Frank_ emerged as milk-and-watery Millie Perkins. _A Catered Affair_ served Kellys instead of Cohens.

Sam stayed on speaking terms with me until _Porgy and Bess_ came along, and he hired as director Rouben Mamoulian, who had performed the same task for DuBose Heyward’s _Porgy_ as a straight play, before it was converted into a musical. During the following eight months Mamoulian had fresh arrangements orchestrated, persuaded a distinguished list of Negro players to forget their fears that the movie would be an “Uncle Tom” show.

Sidney Poitier, Dorothy Dandridge, Pearl Bailey, and others had turned down Goldwyn’s approaches. Only Sammy Davis, Jr., had agreed to perform. Mamoulian explained individually to each holdout how he would direct, with full recognition of the fact that humanity has come a long way since Porgy first saw the light of Catfish Row. Satisfied that there’d be no reflection on their race, they signed contracts with Sam--who decided to fire Mamoulian and hire in his place Otto Preminger, whose style is distinctly Prussian. He engaged Preminger before he told Mamoulian he was through.

Outraged, I let fly at Sam in a column. I admired this talented, foxy man from the days when he was Sam Goldfish, an immigrant from Poland. I knew him as Jesse Lasky’s partner when Geraldine Farrar came out from New York to make _Joan of Arc_ in 1915. In fact, I made a couple of silent pictures for him. I helped get an honorary Oscar for Harold Russell, the miraculous, handless ex-GI in Sam’s _Best Years of Our Lives_. Harold also collected one as best supporting actor, thus squeezing out Clifton Webb, who was the favorite that year in that category.

Samuel was Mr. Charm himself then; we were friends, especially if he’d had a tiff with Louella. But a few lines in print ended our life-term friendship. He hasn’t spoken to me since. It’s gall to him that _Porgy and Bess_ was one of his few failures, a dull, photographed opera with no heart, soul, or finesse, where Mamoulian could have made it a thing of beauty, like the original _Porgy_, which had me weeping tears of compassion as I first saw it in a New York theater.

* * * * *

Beverly Hills is my home. I’ve lived in the same house there for twenty-two years. When I walk my gray French poodle, Beau Beau, a gift from Ann Sheridan, I pass the house of Ned Washington, who wrote such scintillating songs as “My Foolish Heart,” “I’ll Walk Alone,” “When You Wish Upon a Star.” Across from him resides Pete Smith, retired now, whose movie short subjects had audiences in gales of laughter for more than a generation.

Then there’s the home of Ann and Jack Warner, with its private golf course and tennis court. In the drawing room hangs her portrait by Salvador Dali, the finest he’s painted.... There’s the house of Mr. and Mrs. Bruno Pagliai. We knew her first as Merle Oberon, then as Lady Alexander Korda. After their divorce she married Lucien Ballard, one of our finest cinematographers. She longed for children but could have none, even after several operations. So after her marriage to Bruno, she adopted a boy and a girl.

Next to the Pagliais live Ketti and Kurt Frings. Ketti adapted for the stage _Look Homeward, Angel_, which boosted Tony Perkins to stardom. Kurt is the agent who got Elizabeth Taylor the first million-dollar picture salary in our history.

Turning into Roxbury Drive, I pass the home of Lucille Ball, who knew joy and sorrow there with Desi Arnaz and now is happy as a lark with her new husband, Gary Morton. Tallulah Bankhead and I were among the dinner guests in that house once, when Tallu was appearing the following day on “I Love Lucy.” Desi seated me on his right, a place which Tallu insisted should be hers. But Hopper can be stubborn as an Amish mule, and the brickbats started to fly. We couldn’t get her out of the house until 1:30 A.M. At the “Lucy” filming Lucille was nervous as a cat over the events of the previous night. She forgot her lines for the first time in her life. Tallulah, who’d been appalling during rehearsals, sailed through her performance like Eleanora Duse.

Lucy’s neighbors are Mary and Jack Benny, who’ve never changed marriage partners or their way of life. Jack doesn’t stop working; Mary, like Gracie Allen, refuses to set foot on a TV sound stage again.

Up the street, you find Jeanne Crain and Paul Brinkman and their six children, all happy as hooligans. Better look sharp as you pass or you’ll trip over roller skates, a tricycle, or a baseball bat on the sidewalk.

Next door is a house of sorrow--Rosemary Clooney and her five children live there with no husband or father to guide them. José Ferrer moved out. Also on this street are the Ira Gershwins; the Thomas Mitchells; Aggie Moorehead in the house where Sigmund Romberg used to make music and feed us every Sunday night. In this block, too, stands the Spanish house where Liz Taylor lived with her parents when she was making _National Velvet_, too young to be interested in men or even boys.

Then I pass what was once the home of Sir Charles and Lady Mendl, a monstrous Spanish affair that Elsie Mendl made over into a thing of beauty. Never was an off-color joke allowed to be told when she was present. Ludwig Bemelmans, who had a Rabelaisian sense of humor, repaid her hospitality by adorning the powder-room walls with some outrageous pictures. She took one horrified look and ordered the walls repainted immediately. Elsie, ninety-five pounds of energy, fun, and good taste, received Sir Charles in her bedroom only after she had granted him permission via his valet.

Charles and I used to walk by the mile together, apparently the only residents of Beverly who applied their legs to such purpose. Though he’d known seventeen European monarchs in his day--including the Duke of Windsor, whom Charles didn’t much care for--he steadfastly turned down my pleas for him to write the Mendl memoirs.

Charles earned his knighthood as press attaché to the British Embassy in Paris when Ramsay MacDonald was Prime Minister. MacDonald, unsophisticated as a newborn baby, fell into the clutches of a wise and beautiful woman. He was indiscreet enough to write her letters that a schoolboy would have blushed over. The problem was how to recover them without scandal or the outlay of a mint of money.

Someone thought of Charles Mendl, who had a way with the ladies and adored them one and all. He was delighted to accept the assignment. The lady was so pleased with him that she produced the letters for them to read together, roaring with laughter. She presented them to him as a souvenir of many happy hours, and she collected a few thousand pounds for her trouble. The Empire was saved; Charles was knighted.

* * * * *

No wonder psychiatrists flourish in our town. There are nearly two hundred of them. Bedford Drive and Roxbury Drive, where their consulting rooms are concentrated, are known as Libido Lane and Couch Canyon. Louis Mayer once had his whole family analyzed by the same woman. I went to her once to see how she’d react to my being a patient.

“You’d have me on the couch in nothing flat,” she said. “Out you go.” I went.

_Six_

The one and only exclusive interview I had with Marlon Brando lasted half an hour. As the minutes ticked by he sat posed like Rodin’s “Thinker” contemplating a bust of Stanislavski. He paid no more heed to me than if I’d been a ladybug squatting on the back of his canvas chair. With a snap of the fingers, I brought him out of his trance. “Have you been listening, Mr. Brando?”

“Sure.”

“Do you care to answer my questions?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Then may I tell you that I didn’t want this interview? Your producer, Stanley Kramer, insisted that I do it. You needn’t submit yourself to further agony. Thanks for nothing, and good day.”

I walked off the set of _The Men_, and I haven’t set foot on any Brando set from that day on. Every studio he has worked for has tried to coax me back. But I can’t be insulted twice, not if I know what’s going to happen.

I regard him as a supreme egotist, for want of a better term, whose good performances, like those in _On the Waterfront_ and _A Streetcar Named Desire_, I recognize. I understand that he refers to me as “The One with the Hat.” He has been known variously as “the male Garbo” and “Dostoevski’s Tom Sawyer.” He’s doing extremely well without my support in piling up millions. He’s a dedicated ringleader in a current melodrama which can be called “Viva Brando; or, The Actor’s Revenge.”

When he originally landed here in 1950, he carried his entire wardrobe in a canvas satchel: two pairs of blue jeans, four T shirts, two pairs of socks, and the works of the philosopher Spinoza, who teaches that everything is decreed by God and is therefore necessarily good. Marlon immediately labeled Hollywood a “cultural boneyard.”

He said then: “My objective is to submit myself to what I think and feel until I’m in a position to think and feel as I please.” It took ten years to do it, but he made it in spades in _Mutiny on the Bounty_. He also said: “The only reason I’m here is because I don’t yet have the moral strength to turn down the money.”

When Stanley Kramer telephoned him in Paris about doing _The Men_, Marlon had two questions: “Do you want me for more than one film? How much will you pay?” From a $50,000 fee for _The Men_, he went, via _Streetcar_, to $150,000 in _Viva Zapata_. More recently, he held out for every cent of net profits, leaving the studio to collect nothing more than a percentage of the gross as distributor. His asking price now is a million dollars a performance.

The town should have known what to expect on the strength of reports from Broadway and his nerve-racking portrayal in the theater of Stanley Kowalski, the cave-man lover of _Streetcar_. Irene Selznick, who produced the play, gave an opening-night party at “21” which Marlon reluctantly attended. Jerome Zerbe, the society photographer and columnist, was there, and Irene asked if he’d invite Marlon over to be photographed with her, not for publicity but for her personal album.

Crossing the room, Zerbe passed on the request to Marlon, who turned him down flat. “Why should I be photographed with her?”

“Well, she’s your producer, after all.”

“Means nothing to me,” said the newest sensation of Broadway, aged twenty-three. Zerbe broke the news to Irene and exchanged no more words with Marlon until Gertrude Lawrence and Beatrice Lillie, arriving late, picked their way through the crowd to Zerbe and made a fuss over him.

Now Marlon could see that Jerome was socially “in”; he made a beeline for him. “I’ll pose for that picture now,” he offered.

Zerbe, a proud man, was halfway toward the door on his way out. “You won’t pose for me,” he said flatly. “I wouldn’t photograph you if you were the last man on this earth.”

I once put a question to Marlon asking his opinion of acting as a profession. “If you’re successful,” he replied, “it’s about as soft a job as anybody could ever wish for. But if you’re unsuccessful, it’s worse than having a skin disease.”

Social ailments of various kinds hold a strange attraction for him. When reporters used to ask him about some chapters of his younger days, he would tell them he couldn’t give an adequate answer because at the time he wasn’t feeling too well. The favorite theme cropped up again when he was making _Mutiny on the Bounty_ in Tahiti. By then, the joke was on him, but he was drawing $5000 a day overtime and spouting another favorite thought in slightly altered words: “After you’ve got enough money, money doesn’t matter.”

He arrived in Hollywood with a hole in the knee of his only pair of pants, and a large-sized chip on his shoulder. Though there were stories of such generosity as tipping a New York shoeshine boy with a five-dollar bill “because I felt sorry for him,” he appeared to resent spending money, even a dime. If he could get an agent or reporter to buy him a dinner, a drink, or even a cup of coffee, he was in a good mood for hours. He refused to load himself down with a house, swimming pool, convertible, fancy wardrobe, or any such items which the “cultural boneyard” usually regards as the accompaniments to a soaring career.

Producers, if they can, cultivate extravagance on the part of the stars. They see to it that their puppets stagger under piles of possessions and towering stacks of bills. Studios will lend money so it seems easy to buy the house with the swimming pool at $200,000. The debt becomes a sword to dangle over the star’s head if he shows signs of resentment about making a particular picture. Arguments about “artistic integrity” are as effective as paper darts against a studio that holds the mortgage.

To his credit, in more ways than one, Marlon was in no danger on that score. “Just because the big shots were nice to me,” he told a reporter, “I saw no reason to overlook what they did to others and to ignore the fact that they morally behave with the hostility of ants at picnics.”

He is turning the picnic tables with a vengeance on the “ants.” Their one-sided admiration of Brando (they used to call him “the best actor in the world” on weekdays and a “genius” on Sundays) got chipped when Twentieth Century-Fox cast him in a stinker called _The Egyptian_. He objected, but they imagined they had soothed him and went ahead building sets, making costumes, signing other players. When the first day of shooting arrived, Brando did not. Instead, his New York psychoanalyst sent a telegram: BRANDO VERY SICK.

* * * * *

Breaking a contract is a refined art, which skillful performers conduct with the finesse of brain surgeons. A classic case is provided by Jerry Lewis after he broke with Dean Martin when they were under contract to make three more pictures for Hal Wallis.

Wallis had the legal right to have them complete the contract, no matter what carnage would have resulted. Martin and Lewis’ agents, the Music Corporation of America, talked to him but they got nowhere. Attorneys tried to argue with him, but Wallis is, among other things, a stubborn man. It took a press agent to recall the time-tested formula.

“You call Mr. Wallis,” the agent told Jerry, “and invite him to lunch at the Hillcrest Country Club. Sit him down and say: ‘Have you ever had a picture that began, Scene one, take eighty-five?’ Tell him that you’re ready to devote six months of your life to his next Martin and Lewis picture; that you understand his problem, so you’ve reserved a suite at Mount Sinai Hospital for him as your guest. Because you know he’s going to get a coronary from the aggravation that’s coming to him.”

The press agent continued: “Also tell Wallis: ‘You know my own medical history. I only pray to God we don’t get in the middle of this thing before I have to take to my bed again.’”

Jerry took Hal Wallis to lunch at Hillcrest and said his piece. Wallis heard him out, then conceded: “I get your point. I’ll start with you alone in a new picture next month.” No further movie with Dean Martin was discussed.

Marlon didn’t get off so lightly when he tangled with Fox. The studio pushed Edmond Purdom into _The Egyptian_, which was a great mistake, and sued Brando for two million dollars. He settled by agreeing to play Napoleon in a turgid flop called _Desirée_.

The studio bosses are proof positive that you can fool yourself most of the time over stars who, when the fancy strikes them, delight in doing in the people who put up the money. The producers ignore any flop these highly prized players make and hypnotize themselves by repeating over and over: “We can’t go wrong this time; it’s our turn to be lucky.” They blind themselves to the fact that these stars jeer at the money men, make fools of them, regard them deep down as their sworn enemies with the I.Q. of idiots.

Marlon got into stride when he made _One-Eyed Jacks_, a simple Western that was going to cost no more than $1,800,000 and a few months to complete. First casualty was the director, Stanley Kubrick, who retreated in the early stages of production and abandoned the field to Brando. On his first day as director, Marlon threw away the script and announced: “We’re going to improvise.” For the next half year, he and his crew ran up production bills of $42,000 a day.

He had them spending hours on the shores of the Pacific waiting for the water to “look more dramatic.” He’d start the cameras, then sit with his head between his knees for twenty minutes or more until he got in the mood. As a good democrat, he let his actors vote for the last reel they liked best, and that was the ending he used, though he didn’t care for it himself.

When the front office at Paramount got uneasy and costs passed the $6,000,000 mark, Marlon turned surly: “I’m shooting a movie, not a schedule.” There were days, I’m sure, when Y. Frank Freeman, head of Paramount, would have liked to clobber him, while Marlon went on playing his favorite mumbling, lurching, behind-scratching character--himself. Paramount has long since given up hope of getting its money back, much less of making a profit.

But when _Mutiny_ came around, Metro recited the old mumbo jumbo: “We can’t go wrong on this.” Sol Siegel, who ran the studio, would settle for nobody but Marlon as top star. That little decision, along with several other lulus along the way, cost well over $20,000,000 before the picture was wound up. Marlon enjoyed $1,250,000 for his contributions, along with ten per cent of the gross and an incredible contract giving him the final word on scenes taken on Tahiti.

Screen rights to the original novel by Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall were bought by the late Frank Lloyd, a fine, free-lance director, for only $12,000. In order to make the picture and gather the cast he’d set his heart on, he was compelled to sell those rights back to Irving Thalberg at Metro for precisely what they had cost.

Metro’s first flash of creative genius called for Wallace Beery to play Captain Bligh in the breath-catching tale of eighteenth-century mutiny on the high seas aboard the British merchantman _Bounty_. They envisaged the sadistic captain as a comical old coot pursued by his wife and twelve children. Talked out of that, Thalberg signed Charles Laughton, who for weeks had to be rowed slowly around Catalina Island, flat on his back on the floorboards, to teach his protesting digestion that seasickness was not permissible during working hours.

Louis B. Mayer didn’t think much of the script: “Where’s the romance?” he demanded. Gable didn’t like the idea of playing Fletcher Christian, leader of the mutineers and his finest role up to that date. Eddie Mannix talked him around: “You’re the only guy in the picture who gets anything to do with a dame.” I’ll never know why they didn’t reissue the old _Mutiny_ after Clark’s death--it would have made $5,000,000 and saved Metro a truckload of ulcers.

Frank Lloyd’s picture was ten months in the making, from his first background shooting on Tahiti to its presentation in November 1935. The bills amounted to $1,700,000, the most expensive MGM production of those days. Front-office opposition grew stronger month by month. To satisfy Nick Schenck, a rough cut was sent to New York with the strict understanding that it would be run only for him to see. He had it screened before an audience of four hundred people and afterward delivered himself of this undying judgment: “Tell Thalberg it’s the worst picture MGM ever made.”

* * * * *

The second version of _Mutiny_ got under way when an MGM expedition arrived on Tahiti at the height of the rainy season. It had to run before the weather and go back later for another try. The first of the thirty scripts to be completed by five writers, including Eric Ambler and Charles Lederer, was meantime coming hot off the typewriters.

Life on French Tahiti, where society is very proper and the caste system very strong, livened up considerably when Marlon debarked. He unearthed a series of hide-outs to which he would retire when the mood came upon him. On bad days hours would roll by while messengers tracked him down so that filming could resume.

His taste in girls has always been off-beat, from the Hindu impersonator, Anna Kashfi, whom he married and divorced; through the fisherman’s daughter, Josanne Mariana-Berenger, to a barefoot waitress whom he found on Tahiti.

The first major casualty among the company was Oscar-winning Hugh Griffith, who was eased off the island by the French authorities after some spectacular high jinks. Another Briton, Sir Carol Reed, hired to direct, was replaced when it developed that he saw Captain Bligh as the hero, not Fletcher Christian. At the speed at which he was shooting, it would have taken years to finish the picture.

Sir Carol had also made the basic error of believing that when he told Marlon to do something in front of the camera, Marlon would obey. Reed was succeeded by Lewis Milestone, director and diplomat, who grew accustomed to handling difficult situations with kid gloves.

There were plenty to handle. The movie makers hit the South Seas like a typhoon. Liquor poured over the island like the Johnstown flood. A French naval lieutenant ran off with the second native lead halfway through filming, so that in one version two girls mysteriously alternated in playing the romantic scenes without a word of explanation being offered.

Marlon at one point was bowled over in a double feature by a popular local infection and a virus, forcing him to take to his bed for three weeks.

Aaron Rosenberg, the producer, couldn’t make a move without being balked and countermanded by cable and telephone from Metro’s front office, where Siegel found his reputation at stake. On Tahiti there was panic at the lack of a script. A succession of writers, concluding with Lederer, worked against the clock to get out scenes, often only one day in advance of shooting, sometimes rewriting lines at lunch time for the afternoon shift.

“In one two-week period we shot only two small scenes,” Richard Harris told me during filming--he came close to stealing the picture as one of the mutineers. “That wasn’t surprising since Brando was constantly demanding that scenes be rewritten. You never knew where the hell you were.” Marlon added his own seasoning to the stew by toying with the idea at one point of abandoning the part of Christian and taking on a different role in the picture.

Trevor Howard, playing Captain Bligh, left for home swearing: “Never again will I take part in an epic,” and to prove his point he turned down _Cleopatra_. He thought it was “the greatest travesty in the world to allow Brando to snap and snarl at me.”

In their steamy tents the sweating writers invented a game to preserve their sanity. They made up imaginary labels to hang on the cast. Trevor Howard: “a deafening answer to no question.” Aaron Rosenberg: “the persistent marshmallow.” For Brando, they had a tag so obscene that he brooded for days, trying in vain to think of some way to strike back at them.

At work, on a typical morning, he’d stand on the Bounty deck, draw his cutlass, and yell at the ship’s company: “I now take command of this....” At that second, his memory would falter. The crew and other cast members filled in for him. “Train?” somebody suggested. Marlon nodded his thanks and take eighteen began. This time he got it right ... “command of this ship.”

Charles Lederer insisted: “Brando is responsible for a great deal of whatever brilliance the picture has. But neither he nor anybody else I know can improvise and be better in five minutes on the set than a writer with three weeks at a typewriter.”

Marlon’s enthusiasm touched rock bottom when it came to playing scenes supposedly on Pitcairn Island, where the _Bounty_ mutineers landed. Rosenberg ordered him to perform. Richard Harris related the rest of the story: “Brando fouled it up good. He came to work for a few days, but I thought he was acting as though he wanted to scuttle it. So I finally told him: ‘When you’re willing to perform like a pro, I’ll be in my dressing room.’ The picture was suspended for three days, while they tried to get him to resume, but not a word about it got into print--it was all suppressed.”

The cast didn’t know what they were doing most of the time because the next scene usually contradicted whatever they were trying to play. Harris had another clash with Brando. He told me: “Brando said: ‘This is the final script. I want nothing changed, not a line, not a comma.’ On the strength of that, I memorized eight pages. We rehearsed it in the morning, went to lunch, and prepared to shoot in the afternoon.”

The company returned after the break, and the cameras rolled. Then “Cut!” Harris related: “They told me I was wrong. When I asked why, I found out they’d changed the script during lunch. I demanded that the producer be brought to the set.”

Aaron Rosenberg didn’t know that changes had been made. “Actors,” said Brando to Harris, “are paid to do their jobs without opinion.”

Harris exploded. “You like to pull the strings as though others are puppets. This scene was changed because you demanded it.” At that point Lewis Milestone walked off the set. So did Harris, who’s an outspoken Irishman. “When Mr. Brando is ready to perform, I’m available,” he said once more.

“It was a long way to my dressing room. You’d have thought I was radioactive the way everybody backed away from me. I lay down on my couch and closed my eyes. Presently the director stuck his head in the door to say sotto voce: ‘Everybody in the company wants to applaud. You were great.’ But still no one came in until Rosenberg shook my hand, said he was sorry this had happened, and added: ‘Thank you.’”

Eighteen months after the start, when MGM had poured more than $20,000,000 into this bounty on the _Mutiny_, Marlon was still acting up. The final scenes, months behind schedule, were being shot in Hollywood, costing still another two million. With the financial future of Metro itself at stake, with millions tied up in a picture which still had no ending, Marlon played Fletcher Christian in such a manner that, although the cameras turned, the film was unusable. He overplayed; he underplayed; he mumbled; he minced. It was a unique moment in our town’s history. Nobody before him had dared take hold of a mammoth studio, swing it by the tail, and make the bosses like it. The actors’ revenge was complete.

It takes avaricious agents with calculating machines for hearts to encourage stars like Brando to behave as they do. Now that no studio any longer has its own roster of stars tied by contracts, the agents and actors run Hollywood, as they always threatened to. The studio has to go cap in hand to the agent to sign up the big star for a single picture. No more than a half dozen actors and actresses alive today can attract an audience big enough to give a picture a hope of success at the box office.

The first giant among ten per centers hated producers and made no secret of it. Myron Selznick held it a point of honor to wring every dollar he could get out of the studios to settle the score for the wrong that had been done his father, Lewis J. The louder the bosses yelled “Murder!” the harder Myron squeezed.

Lewis J. was nicknamed “C.O.D.” for “cash on delivery” by starlets he lured to that notorious item of studio furniture, the casting couch. He lured plenty when he owned a $60,000,000 film corporation in the silent twenties. But as a financier he overreached himself. His sons, Myron and David, blamed rival movie makers for plotting the ruin that overtook old “C.O.D.”

Myron’s first client was Lewis Milestone, who must have smiled philosophically to himself when he saw what Brando was doing to MGM. Acting for Milestone, Myron left his mark on the Howard Hughes studio when, in 1927, he squeezed out of them exactly twice the salary the then young director had anticipated receiving. Alva Johnston recalled the time when Myron went home rejoicing: “Remember what those bastards did to my father? They paid more than a million dollars for it today.”

Bill Wellman was Selznick’s second client. After him, everybody who was anybody--Carole Lombard, William Powell, Pat O’Brien, to name just a sample--rushed to get Myron to do battle for them.

But neither he nor the mob of imitators who followed him in business managed to hold the entire industry up to ransom as it is being done today. One reason was that under the star system of that era, contracts came up only once a year for negotiation, not before every picture. Another reason: producers and directors, to a great extent, could make or break a star.

As a tribe, actors and actresses seldom know what’s good for them. They usually judge any script solely by the number of lines of dialogue they get. Greer Garson announced to one and all that she wouldn’t be playing in _Goodbye, Mr. Chips_, one of the finest pictures that came her way, because “I’m only in a few scenes.”

The day before she left town for England to make the picture, she poured out her woe to me. “I’ve sat here for months doing nothing,” she said, “and now I’m going back to my native land in a picture that gives me a very small part. When I left England, I was a star there; my friends will think I’m coming home a failure.”

I wrote the story, but before she stepped on the train the next day, she begged me to kill it: “What if the picture’s a hit? I’d look like a fool.” So I kept a friend by sitting on the interview. _Mr. Chips_ made her an international name.

Vanity takes all kinds of shapes. In one of his earliest pictures Gary Cooper played a location scene so well that it was shot in a single take. That night Coop went diffidently to the director’s tent. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to do that scene over again in the morning,” he said. “I seem to remember at one point I picked my nose I was so nervous.”