In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

49 4 The 1960s Hollywood Off-Ramp If my toilet’s stopped up and the repairman shows me a card from the plumber’s union, I have a reasonable expectation he can fix it. If someone shows me their Writers Guild card, I have no idea whether or not they can write. —Joseph L. Mankiewicz The Comancheros (I work with the “Duke,” dance with the Navajos, get fired by Michael Curtiz, and lose my virginity) I’m kind of a “third” assistant director on the film. Today’s equivalent on a crew would be called a “trainee.” My first task is to go to the Burbank airport where the film company will take off in a chartered plane for Moab, Utah. I am to check everyone onto the flight. The night before I’m so keyed up I can’t sleep, at least until about 3:00 a.m., when I finally do fall asleep, sleep through my alarm, and miss the flight. Hardly an auspicious start to a show business career. I drive to Fox to take my medicine from Doc Merman. He sees how horribly shaken I am and, thank God, doesn’t rub it in. I’m put on a tiny, single-engine Cessna that day, flying to Moab with the raw film stock for the movie. The flight is interminable and bumpy. I think it will never end. My boss is the first assistant director, Jack Berne. I’m working doubly hard to make up for my disastrous start, and thank goodness everyone seems terribly helpful in breaking me in. I bury myself in crew lists, schedules, and budgets and familiarize myself with all the local desert locations. My Life as a Mankiewicz 50 I start with the easiest of jobs. The first morning of shooting I’m to take a car driven by a teamster and pick up John Wayne at 6:00 a.m. at the house he’s renting nearby. By 5:00 a.m. I’m already in the coffee shop of the Apache Motel, where most of the company is staying. I have about eleven cups of coffee, then check my watch: it’s 5:40. I’d better get going. Suddenly, I hear a sound behind me: “clink, clink, clink . . .” I turn and look up into the iconic face of John Wayne, who is peering down at me. He’s already dressed in his film wardrobe. His gun belt is on, boots, spurs, Texas Ranger’s badge, the whole nine yards. From my position on the stool he seems nine feet tall and three feet wide. “Are you the fella who’s supposed to pick me up?” “Yes, sir, Mr. Wayne.” “Well, I like to drive myself with my wardrobe and makeup guys. I know this valley pretty well by now. I’ll get there.” “Yes, sir, Mr. Wayne, whatever you say.” He nods, looks down at me, and notices a “Kennedy for President” button on my shirt lapel. “I’d take that button off if I were you. We don’t advertise socialists on my set.” I blush. He suddenly gives me that great, big, wide, wonderful John Wayne grin. I think he’s trying to tell me he’s kidding, but the Kennedy button never reappears for the duration of the film. The picture starts shooting in the desert, and I drink in every minute of it. It’s a wonderful experience to be out there with Wayne and his legendary stunt men from the John Ford stock company. This is, I am convinced, what making movies is all about. Wayne is the leader, there is no doubt. He’s giving and kind to everyone, although he can be gruff and single-minded at times. His loyalties run deep, and it sometimes seems that many people working on the movie have done at least a dozen films with him. Anyone who’s worked with Wayne before and been asked back can call him “Duke.” Until he lets you know, if he lets you know, it’s “Mr. Wayne.” This stems from his days with John Ford. Everyone—I mean everyone—called him “Mr. Ford.” In the eighties, when I had dinner with Maureen O’Hara, who’d starred in five or six pictures for him, she still referred to him as “Mr. Ford.” John Wayne called him “Pappy.” He was the only one allowed to do that. If you tried to call Ford “Pappy,” you’d get a...

Share