by Erik Tarloff
Well, you can imagine how Jeff felt about those people. Hated ’em. Resented ’em. Thought they made acting into something it wasn’t, were all airy-fairy about it. Wasted everybody’s time on the set. Put everybody through a bunch of shit so they could, what did they call it, get into the truth of the scene or the character or something. Jeff thought they were really just playing with their dicks while everybody had to stand around and watch them do it. That was his attitude.
Just between us, and I probably shouldn’t say this, but frankly, I think he was probably a little scared of ’em too. Maybe I’m just talking through my hat here, and I would never have said anything like this to Jeff himself, he would’ve clocked me for sure, but I sometimes got the impression he was…he was afraid they might be right, you know? That they might know something about acting he didn’t. Or worse, that he might not know a damn thing about acting. To be blunt, he was afraid that they might be much better than him, they might show him up.
Even before all this, even before the war, after we’d had a few drinks, he’d sometimes admit to me he didn’t really know what he was doing when he was acting, he’d just fallen into it by chance—he got spotted by a talent scout when he was working as a day laborer on a construction site, height of the Depression, he’d felt lucky to have that gig, this movie thing was just totally random—and then it worked out for him but he had no idea why. So he might’ve felt he’d been getting away with faking it all those years. I’d tell him, no, no, you’re really good, it comes so natural to you you don’t need to know what you’re doing, all you have to do is do it, but when he was soused he’d get pretty low and it was impossible to jolly him out of it. Compliments even made him angry. He mostly just wanted me to sit there and listen to him whine, I guess. A life-sized dummy or a cardboard cutout of me would’ve worked just as well.
And I also think he was sure those new boys and girls, that new breed of actors, considered him a hack and a dinosaur, which both made him mad and shook his confidence even more. Both at the same time. And believe me, it’s tough for a tough guy to feel that way. A tough guy isn’t supposed to worry about shit like that. A tough guy doesn’t get his confidence shook.
And it could get ugly. On the shoot before Plains and Hills, a Western called, let’s see, it was called The Maverick—not to be confused with the TV show that came along a few years later—there was this New York actor, I don’t even remember his name anymore, and…Jeff used to call him “Mumbles.” He did it enough so the guy finally got defensive and said, “Look, Jeff, this is natural speech, we’re just two guys talking in a saloon, right? I don’t have to elocute, it’d sound phony. If we keep things at a conversational level the mic’ll pick it up.” Well, he didn’t say it snotty, I’ll give him that, he said it kind of matter-of-fact, actor to actor, but even so, that sure as fuck was the wrong approach to take with Jeff, like you’re schooling him somehow. And he didn’t react well, that I can promise you. If you knew him, if you were a friend of his, you could see it. He kept a poker face, which was Jeff’s way, you might even say it was his acting technique—[laughs]—but if you knew him well enough and knew what to look for, you could see that vein in his neck start to throb. And from that moment on, it was just close-in combat. In the middle of pretty much every scene they were shooting, every take of every scene, while the camera was rolling and everything, Jeff would turn to the director and say, “Would you tell Mumbles to speak up, Jack? I can’t hear a fucking word he’s saying.”
And besides that stuff, the guy went through all this Method crap before each take. He had this lengthy, tortured process, and it drove Jeff bat-shit crazy. And he finally had had enough and he got the guy fired. Just couldn’t stand it anymore. Couldn’t stand him anymore. For a few days he just grumbled, grumbled so you could hear it though, then he took to complaining out loud, telling the guy to shit or get off the pot, and finally he went around the director’s back, went straight to the producers, and said, Listen, life’s too short for this bullshit, it’s him or me. Jeff might not’ve been as big in ’49 as he was in ’39 or ’40, but he was still a pretty major star, and if he wanted someone gone they’d be gone. And the next day, that’s how fast it happened, the guy was gone and this other actor had taken over. Wrong sort of type, much too old for the part, too old and, frankly, too fat, but Jeff was comfortable with him—they’d done a few pictures together before the war—and that’s all that mattered at that point. They had to reshoot a bunch of scenes, they lost a week or two, and I can’t imagine the suits were happy about that, but Jeff got his way.
So anyway, because of that, and other things too, we were all a little nervous about this Hardwick guy they’d hired to play Jeff’s kid brother. No one knew much about him, but we knew he’d been in New York until pretty recently, and that wasn’t exactly a recommendation in Jeff’s eyes. And we heard he’d been studying with James Sterling, and Sterling was a big Method guy, so that definitely put us on edge. It could be The Maverick all over again, except without horses. Jeff liked horses.
Before the shoot began, I could see Jeff was uneasy about it. Kind of antsy, and that wasn’t like him at all. But The Maverick had been a real bad experience for him, and even though he had this tough guy reputation and could be a mean son of a bitch sometimes, he wasn’t crazy about conflict, not unless he knew from the start he had the upper hand. He liked making pictures, you see, making pictures was mostly fun for him, he sometimes said he couldn’t believe they paid him to do it. But The Maverick hadn’t been fun at all, mostly because of that actor he finally got fired—that left a stench even after the guy was gone—but also because he was beginning to…to…Listen, you know the story about how someone asks a centipede how it knows how to walk, and the centipede thinks about it and then, after thinking about it, is unable to ever walk again? I think Jeff was feeling a little like that. These young actors, they were so full of craft and technical know-how and Method gobbledygook, and just by noticing them and watching them go through their process Jeff was beginning to think about those questions himself for the first time, and after thinking about them, maybe thinking about them a little too much, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to act anymore.
So he was nervous. But for the first few days things went okay. Hardwick was around, he stuck around even when he didn’t have a call that day, but he didn’t have that much to do. A line here and there, or sitting quietly in a scene reacting to what the other people were doing, or, if he wasn’t in the scene at all, just perched off the side watching. He seemed pleasant enough between takes. Polite. Quiet. Jeff was pretty rude to him to be honest, but mostly by ignoring him, not out-and-out insulting him. He’d occasionally grunt if Hardwick said something, and the grunt was meant to come across as bored or unimpressed or something like that. Like he couldn’t be bothered to say anything in words, nothing Hardwick said was worth the effort.
One night during that first week or so of shooting, I was over Jeff’s house, we were having a couple of drinks, and he suddenly ups and says, “So what do you think of the pretty boy?”
I say, “You mean the actor? On this picture? Hardwick?”
And he says, “Yeah, him. What do you think?”
So, to be honest, I didn’t think much of anything, he hadn’t really done anything yet. Either on camera or off. He showed up on time, knew his blocking, if he had a line—which had rarely been the case so far—he delivered it. But I knew what Jeff wanted to hear, so I said, “He hasn’t shown me anything. Not sure he has anything to show.”
And Jeff grunted. Same deal as when he grunted with Hardwick, I guess. He wanted more from me than that. Something meaner. But honestly, to have said much more would have been ridiculous, and would have gotten Jeff just as mad ’cause he’da known I was only trying to make him happy. It was one of those can’t-win situations with Jeff. They happened from time to time. Jeff could be a peppery son of a bitch.
But then, late in the second wee
k of shooting, they had one of their big scenes. A confrontation scene, a sort of…I mean the kid brother confesses to Jeff’s character that he’s killed this gal. One of the two or three most emotional moments in the whole picture. And they did it a buncha times, different camera set-ups and so on, and then each did it in close-up a few times, camera over the other guy’s shoulder, and I gotta say, each time it seemed like a different scene. Hardwick did it real different each time, totally different emotional color, different line-readings, and Jeff had to change his performance a little in each take to match what the kid was giving him. Then, after a few hours of that, the director yelled “Cut!” and says, “Okay, I think that’s enough for the day. Let’s all go home early for a change.”
So I was driving Jeff home, up Laurel Canyon and across Mulholland. And he was real quiet the whole time. Looking out the window, not saying a word. I knew better than to say anything. When Jeff was brooding like that, the best thing you could do was stay quiet and if possible be invisible. And then we reached his house, I drove up Jeff’s driveway and into his garage. And he opened the passenger side door but he didn’t get out right away. He just sat there for a few seconds. And then he said, real quiet, almost a whisper, “Did you see what was happening back there?”
And I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know where Jeff was coming from, and I was afraid of saying the wrong thing. So I said, “Interesting day, huh?” You know, non-committal. I was afraid if I said the wrong thing, whatever he was feeling, he’d take it out on me.
And Jeff said, still real quiet, like he was talking to himself, “It was fucking amazing.” And then he said, “It was like…it was like we were playing tennis, almost. Like two seasoned pros playing tennis. And he was forcing me to cover the whole fucking court. Making me scramble.” And then, after being quiet for a few more seconds, he suddenly blew out some air, you know that kind of cross between an exhale and a sigh? And he said, “I tell you, Mike, that pretty boy’s the best goddamned actor I’ve ever seen.” He shook his head, then he finally turned around to look at me. “What he was doing…it was on a whole different level. It’s like he’s in a whole different business than me. It felt like I was riding a goddamn bucking bronco. All I could do was hang on real tight and try not to get thrown.”
He was nice to Hardwick after that. It was like Robin Hood and Little John after their fight on the river. I don’t mean they become best buddies or anything, but they were on good terms for the rest of the shoot. Jeff would occasionally clap the kid on the back after a scene, give him a compliment, sometimes even ask him what he thought about this approach or that. And you want to know the most interesting thing? Jeff got great reviews for that picture. Critics said he was really acting for the first time in his career.
Gil Fraser
After Plains and Hills came out, it was pretty clear Chance was going to be a star. He got these amazing reviews—and of course later in the year he got that Oscar nomination—and he should have won, too. He was robbed. That’s what the industry is like: Veterans who have put in the hours usually get the nod. A sentimental thing. A reward for a career, not a single performance. But even still, he suddenly was getting a lot of press. The movie magazines started doing articles about him. “Hollywood’s Newest Heart-Throb,” that kind of shit. He started getting recognized when he went out. People asking for autographs, wanting to shake his hand. I was kind of floored by it, but he was amazingly off-hand. “I used to get this in New York,” he said. “’Cause of that soap I was on. Local fame, you know? The trick, if you don’t want to be mobbed, you just have to be careful not to look anybody in the eye. And whatever you do, keep walking.”
After things had been building like that for a while, I said to him one morning, “I guess you’re going to be moving out soon, huh? Get a place of your own?”
And he sort of grimaced and said, “Nah, not yet, Gil. I plan to stick around for a while if you can stand my company. This whole thing could be a flash in the pan. If it doesn’t go away after I do another picture, then yeah, I’ll probably get myself a house. I’ll be sorry to leave, but it’ll be time.”
So that was kind of typical, that caution. He didn’t trust his luck. And of course, in hindsight, maybe he wasn’t so sure he really wanted the success that was coming his way. He might even have been dreading it.
Kathy Brennan (first president, Chance Hardwick Fan Club)
So when we saw Plains and Hills, me and my girlfriends, we all developed this huge crush on Chance Hardwick. He was so cute. He was also a great actor, I realize that now of course, but back then, that aspect of things would have gone right over my head. I was just a teenage girl falling in love with a shadow on the screen. Old story, right? “Dear Mr. Gable.” And I wasn’t alone—all my friends felt the same way. It was mass hysteria, almost. We cut out photographs of him from movie magazines and put them on our bedroom walls, we talked and giggled about him, we read what little there was to read about him—mostly lies, of course, that’s Hollywood publicity for you—and we went back and saw the movie about ten times till we had it memorized. Squealing whenever he appeared onscreen.
But I was an enterprising young lady in those days, more so than my friends, so I did a little research. I phoned the Screen Actors Guild, I found out who represented him, and I wrote him a fan letter care of his agent, and also inquired whether he had a fan club. I got back an autographed picture, which was a prized possession for several years, and also—in a separate note from his agent, not from him—an inquiry whether I would like to start a Chance Hardwick fan club since none existed at the time. I was over the moon! Of course I said yes.
So that’s how I became the president of the Chance Hardwick Fan Club. There was no election or anything. It was mine by default. At first the club was just a pretty dinky operation: me, my friends, a few other girls we knew. He wasn’t that well known yet. But word kept spreading, and its membership kept growing pretty steadily. It kind of built over the summer months after Plains and Hills came out and a whole lot of girls discovered they weren’t alone in having this crush on him. Which made me feel proud, as if I had been the one who discovered him. You know, first girl on the moon sort of thing.
And then, after Lightning Bolt was released, MGM kind of moved in and took over the club. He was a big star all of a sudden, and the fan club was now part of their marketing campaign, so it wasn’t just a kid’s enthusiasm anymore, it was big business. They let me stay on as president, but I really didn’t have that much to do with running it after that, I was largely president just for publicity purposes. The MGM PR department really ran things from then on, I was just the teenage figurehead. To make it seem authentic. Newsletters and announcements of special events and merchandise and things like that went out over my signature, but I didn’t write them. My name was on the membership cards you got when you joined. “Kathy Brennan, President,” with a reproduction of my signature. That was cool. I felt famous. I started getting fan mail myself! Seriously!
And to be honest, having operations taken off my hands wasn’t a bad arrangement at all as far as I was concerned. More a relief. I could never have managed to run a real, big, professional fan club, and wouldn’t have been interested in trying. I mean, gosh, at our peak we had tens of thousands of members. Way beyond anything I would have been capable of handling. I just had a girlish crush on an actor and took it an extra step, you know?
But I did get to meet him a number of times at various publicity events, and even got to attend a couple of premieres—and I have to say, he was always very sweet to me, funny and personal. He didn’t make me feel like a jerk for having a childish crush, and he flirted just enough to make me feel attractive and appreciated without ever doing anything even slightly threatening. I came close to fainting the first couple of times I met him, and that isn’t an exaggeration—it was almost too much for me to handle—and when he kissed me on the cheek for a publicity photo I didn’t wash my fac
e for about a week afterward, no kidding. I got Christmas cards from him too, and cards on my birthday for several years. Altogether, I’d say it was a great experience for a girl who felt self-conscious and was a little overweight and wasn’t one of the cool kids at school. It gave me an identity and a sense of myself and I firmly believe it’s stood me in good stead for much of my adult life.
My folks thought my obsession with him was unhealthy and didn’t approve at all, but looking back, I’d say it was perfectly fine. I feel privileged to have been able to meet him, and to almost regard him as a friend. Not a friend-friend, of course. I mean, it’s not like I had his phone number or anything like that, we just met when the MGM people arranged it. But over time we were sort of personally friendly, if you see what I mean. Just a little beyond what the situation dictated. He’d greet me by name at events, always had a nice smile when he saw me. It was a thrill to have him call me “Kathy” and to feel comfortable addressing him as “Chance” instead of Mr. Hardwick. He told me to. I wouldn’t have done that without being told. He was just super-nice in every way.
By the time I went off to college I gave up the club. And really, gave up Chance. I mean, that fan club and everything related to it had been an adolescent activity both in the literal sense that I was an adolescent when I was involved, but also in an emotional sense. The emotions were adolescent emotions. I went to college and moved on to caring about other things. But still, when I heard about his drowning, it hit me really hard. All the feelings I’d thought I’d outgrown…they came rushing back. I cried and cried. I guess I still haven’t gotten over it. Those early loves, the real ones and the silly ones…they stay imprinted, don’t they?