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13 One Subchaser Missing in Action 245 In the summer of 1970, I reported to work on the Sam Goldwyn lot just off Santa Monica Boulevard and Formosa, in Hollywood where the Mirisch Company kept offices and made many of their films. The Mirisch brothers were revolutionizing the way Hollywood made pictures. Walter, Lawrence, and Marvin Mirisch realized they didn’t need to own a studio in order to become major players in Hollywood and produce a full slate of features. They merely leased space from Goldwyn and put a welcome sign out for the best moviemakers in town. They promised a hands-off operation . Creative people who came to the Mirisch Company were free to create, and in short order some of Hollywood’s finest signed up. This new independent film company quickly became the most successful operation as the old big studio system began to crumble. The Mirisch Company danced circles around MGM, Universal, Fox, Warner Brothers, and Columbia. Their movies racked up record box-office grosses and, while they were at it, gathered in Oscars and Oscar nominations by the bushel basket, turning out hit movies like Some Like It Hot, The Great Escape, The Magnificent Seven, In the Heat of the Night, The Thomas Crown Affair, Irma La Douce, and The Pink Panther series. They released their cornucopia of classics through United Artists. Keeping a firm eye on the budget (Marvin’s department) and their overhead to a minimum they conquered Hollywood as no independent before or since. Walter Mirisch had embarked on a new plan. He wanted to make ten World War II movies in the one-million-dollar-per-picture budget range. In the 1960s this was not the ridiculously low budget it would be today. With wise selections of scripts and casts of new people, Mirisch knew he could use these vehicles to build for the future. He bought Gutbucket as one of those vehicles. You will perhaps understand my thrill when I drove onto the Goldwyn lot to meet Walter Mirisch, who, after the recent death of his brother Lawrence, had become producing head of the company. When I entered Walter Mirisch’s office, it was like hallowed ground to me. I was going to work where Billy Wilder made his movies as did John Sturgess, I. A. L. Diamond, Blake Edwards, and so many other of Hollywood’s most creative filmmakers. Although I’d worked at all the most famous studios during my checkered career in television, driving onto the lot that first day was a new and altogether thrilling experience. I had never allowed myself the luxury of believing I was qualified to enter the world of feature filmmaking. Even as I parked and went looking for Walter Mirisch’s office, I had an uncomfortable feeling that I was sneaking under the big tent at the circus without buying a ticket. I felt I would soon be discovered and thrown out. It would have taken my father fifteen years to earn what the Mirisch Company paid me for Gutbucket. Nothing would have thrilled him more. When I introduced myself to Walter Mirisch, I knew this was, indeed, a world apart from television. The ambiance in his office was serene, easy-going. His secretary, Jessie, looked more like an attractive middle-aged schoolmarm than a bustling, pert, young Hollywood secretary from the studio pool. There was no TV production frenzy, no secretaries rushing pages to mimeo or to the soundstages, no agents or actors crowding the waiting room eager to get in for an 246 One Subchaser Missing in Action 247 One Subchaser Missing in Action appointment. The phones were not ringing off the hooks. It was quiet, peaceful, relaxed. In Hollywood, wonders never cease. Walter, a lean, good-looking man with a gentle smile, greeted me as I entered his office. He was a man of quiet self-assurance who exuded goodwill. I knew I was even luckier than I had imagined. “I like your story very much,” he said, as he greeted me. “I think it will make a very good picture. We’ve arranged an office for you in our writers building, and you’ll find our small dining room close to your office. The food is quite good and inexpensive. You’re welcome to lunch there whenever you feel like it.” “How soon do you want the screenplay?” I asked, still running on television time. “Why, whenever you...

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