Being Hal Ashby: Life of a Hollywood Rebel

9. Where It’s At

Where It’s At 98 If you did not believe in God, in the importance of marriage, in the U.S. government, in the sanity of politicians, . . . in the wisdom of your elders, you automatically believed in art. —Ben Hecht In the days following the Oscars, Ashby was flooded with telegrams, phone calls, and letters from friends and excited well-wishers. Haskell Wexler sent three notes, Marilyn and Alan Bergman wrote that they hoped it would be “the first of a string of those little fellows that will someday adorn your pad,” and his assistant, Byron “Buzz” Brandt, wrote him a poem: It was a thrill working beside you And watching that flick come alive Being molded and shaped like a statue By tender hands, deep feeling and drive.1 There were even messages from luminaries like Steve McQueen (“Congratulations on your Oscar Groovy Really Groovy”) and the head of the Motion Picture Association of America, Jack Valenti.2 But the gestures that meant the most to Ashby were a phone call from William Wyler and a note from Bob Swink. Ashby was quick to acknowledge his debt to Wyler and told him, “The time I spent working with you and Bob Swink had more to do with me being ‘me’ than anything I can think of or imagine. You are both responsible for the planting and nurturing of those seeds which led to any aesthetic or thoughtful attitudes I now have about film, story telling, or more important—life itself.”3 His most tender sentiments, however, were reserved for Swink: “Please know your son, ‘the oscar winner,’ would never have been if you weren’t such a 9 Where It’s At 99 damned beautiful, thoughtful, patient teacher, friend and father. How could I ever hope to express, in words, how much you have done for me. Obviously, it’s an impossible task, so just know in your heart, the hours of my life spent with you are more important than any award ever could be to me.”4 Ashby’s feeling of debt to Wyler and Swink was particularly acute because of a conversation he’d had during the making of The Thomas Crown Affair. Jewison had suddenly turned to Ashby, with a smile, and asked him, “What do you want to do?” “Well, I want to make films,” Ashby finally replied, struggling to get the words out of his mouth. “I want to direct. That’s where it’s at, isn’t it?” “Right!” said Jewison. “So let’s find something for you.” “It really blew my mind,” Ashby wrote later. “In all the time I had known Norman, we never once touched on the subject, and here this beautiful , sensitive dude was standing there asking me about my dream.”5 Jewison was sad at the prospect of losing his editor, but his personal relationship with Ashby took precedence over the professional one, and he was thrilled to be able to help a dear friend fulfill a long-held dream. What’s more, Ashby needed to move on for the sake of his sanity. His total focus on work to the detriment of everything else had all but destroyed his personal life, reducing his world to the cutting room. “Studio editing rooms are the most depressing places in the world,” he said.6 “I worked in those tiny rooms with those institutional green walls till I thought I’d go crazy.”7 Ashby finally admitted to himself that the strain of editing was beginning to sap his once insatiable appetite for his job. “I’d been working 17 hours a day, 7 days a week for 10 years,” he said, looking back on his editing career. “I’d wake up at 3 a.m. and go to work. I’d try to leave the studio at 6 and still be there at 9. I’d got better and better at my work, meanwhile wrecking [my] marriages. Suddenly, I was tired. I’d become a film editor because everyone said it was the best training for a director. But, suddenly, I was almost 40, and I no longer had the energy to pursue it. So I stopped.”8 To prepare Ashby for directing, Jewison kept him on as associate producer but reduced his editorial duties so he could be on set to watch and learn. To facilitate this, Ralph E. Winters was brought in to edit the final sequences of The Thomas Crown Affair, and Ashby took the...