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

The 1960s 55 Wayne’s own Texas longhorns have been shipped up for the scene. The second unit director is Cliff Lyons, a veteran of many Wayne and John Ford westerns. Curtiz tells him he wants the cattle to be driven into a nearby draw with about a five-foot drop. They’ll have to scramble up the other side. Cliff tells him that some of the cattle will break their legs going in and others might break their legs trying to climb over them and up the other side. Curtiz snaps, “Don’t argue with me, just do it!” He walks off. I say to Cliff, “You can’t possibly shoot this, right? They’re Duke’s cattle.” “Fuck it. He’s the director. If he wants to commit suicide, that’s up to him.” I go over to Curtiz. “Mr. Curtiz, don’t you think we should call Mr. Wayne in Moab first, since these are his cattle?” He turns around with a look of fury, suddenly grabs a gun from an extra’s holster, and fires a blank at me! “You’re fired! Get out of here!” I drive back to Moab. I’m up in my room, packing, wondering how I’ll ever explain this to Dad. The phone rings. Miracle of all miracles—it’s Duke. “I heard what you did out there. Thanks. I’m going out to see what that Hungarian piece of shit’s doing with my cattle. See you in the morning.” “I don’t think so, Duke. He fired me.” “Hell, by the time I’m through with him, he won’t even remember that. See you tomorrow.” The next day I go back to work. Perhaps Curtiz does remember, but he doesn’t say a word about it for the rest of the film. I’m eighteen years old and still a virgin. There’s a very attractive actress in the cast named Joan O’Brien. She worked with Wayne in his previous film, The Alamo, which he directed. She and some children are the only survivors at the end of the movie. For some reason she seems to take a keen interest in me. I’m very flattered. We have dinner one night, following which she asks me to come up to her room. It’s an amazing evening. I’m “all thumbs” at what I’m trying to do for the first time, and she is wonderfully helpful, understanding, and kind. Our “relationship” continues for the last few weeks of filming. It seems there are no secrets on location, something I found to be totally accurate years later. The stuntmen dub me “Wrangler Tom.” When I come on the set wearing one of my brother’s shirts, which I mistakenly packed and which is much too large for me, they marvel at how much weight I’ve lost since I met Joannie. I’m still deeply grateful to Joan O’Brien. I couldn’t have had a warmer, more attractive, and understanding teacher. My Life as a Mankiewicz 56 Boola Boola Thinking of my time at Yale (1959–1963) reawakens so many rich memories : professors who opened cultural, political, and ethical doors for me; classmates from every conceivable background—half the student body was there on scholarship. New Haven was also within inhaling distance of New York, so I could go home on weekends whenever I felt like it. After Mother’s death, we’d moved to a four-story townhouse on SeventyFirst Street between Park and Lexington Avenues. It had its own elevator and a little garden. Chris was attending Columbia University and living uptown. We were a family of three guys now: Dad, Chris, and me. Adelaide Wallace, Dad’s secretary for more than thirty years, occupied a small office on the ground floor. She was, in effect, the female component of the family. Addie was sharp, funny, loyal, and helpful. Everyone loved her. Things finally seemed to be calming down for me at last. But not for long. Bridget Hayward Bridget Hayward was the younger daughter of Leland Hayward and Margaret Sullavan—blond, emotionally fragile, and attractive to the point of being ethereal. I fell desperately in love with her. She was in her early twenties. I was a smitten eighteen-year-old college sophomore staring at an age gulf that effectively made her unattainable. Because of that, I loved her more. To me she was as magical as a character in A Midsummer...

Share