Who the Hell's in It

by Peter Bogdanovich

  Lemmon put the cigarette back in his mouth and, squinting through the smoke, played a refrain easily, gently. His eyes watered because of the smoke and, taking the cigarette from his mouth, he rubbed them. “I’ve always wanted to play the piano with a cigarette in my mouth,” he said, still rubbing. “Only Hoagy Carmichael can do it, though. He must have glass eyeballs.”

  The shot: Yarnell, with the ball in his mouth, was to get punched repeatedly in the belly by Lemmon. Rehearsal: “All right, Bruce,” said Wilder. “Put the ball in your mouth, as the sailor said to the lady.” Lemmon (eagerly, nodding at Yarnell): “He didn’t read for this part, you know, he just sent in his mouth measurement.” Then, to Wilder: “I’m not going to go full steam here, Gadg!?” (A reference to director Elia Kazan’s nickname, short for “gadget.”) Wilder: “Gadg!? Thanks a lot, Mr. Tony Randall!” Shirley MacLaine stood off-camera watching. “All right,” said Wilder. “Let’s get it on celluloid.” The takes: Lemmon punched Yarnell, who made loud noises of frustration trying to get the ball out of his mouth. On one of the takes, Lemmon twisted his wrist; he covered the pain with his other hand. Wilder asked if he was all right and whether he wanted to stop for a while. Lemmon vehemently said no and joked awkwardly about the injury. The work went on. MacLaine broke up loudly and stumbled around the set trying vainly to stifle her laughter. Several abortive takes later, she was still laughing, her hand cupped over her mouth. “That’s the funniest thing I ever saw, Billy,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Are you serious?” Wilder said. “Please, Shirley, go on another set. Go watch Toys in the Attic” [shooting next door]. Then: “Do it right this time, Bruce, and I give you Lizabeth Scott’s phone number.” MacLaine (still laughing): “It’s hysterical, Jack. Just hysterical.” Lemmon (abstractedly): “Thank God. It better be.” Just before the eleventh and final take, Lemmon stood by himself at a corner of the set, preparing. “Sonofabitch,” he mumbled. “Sonofabitch.”

  Tuesday afternoon. Election Day, ’62. The shot: At the bar—Lemmon and MacLaine in front, Jacobi behind. After several drinks, Lemmon was to ask her to take the night off from her streetwalking duties; she refuses and leaves. Rehearsal: Lemmon checked over his lines with the script boy; he tried several different readings. Nearby, Wilder flirted with a Japanese stripper, Tura Satana: “It vould be impossible betveen us,” he said, “because at some point I vould remember Pearl Harbor.” Lemmon took Wilder aside to discuss the scene, telling him he preferred not to kiss MacLaine because it didn’t fit with his character’s mood. After a few minutes of debate, they found a way to do the kiss that satisfied them both. The actor tentatively suggested a bit of business and before Wilder could give an opinion, he himself negated it. “No, huh?” he said. “OK.”

  Lemmon told the director he was excited because there were dialogue scenes coming up. “Oh, you delightful little clown, you,” said Wilder, smiling. Lemmon did a little tap dance. MacLaine arrived and stood out of camera range waiting to enter. I asked Lemmon if he felt frustrated watching himself on the screen. He nervously lit a mentholated cigarette. “Sometimes I’ll laugh at myself in a scene—but very rarely,” he answered. “And even then I’m not really laughing as much as I’m saying, ‘Yeah, it’s working.’” He puffed on his cigarette. “Did you ever watch one stand-up comedian telling a story to another?” Lemmon asked excitedly. “When he hits the punch line, the other guy doesn’t laugh, he says, ‘That’s funny, that’s funny.’ He’s analyzing.” He nodded his head twice. “Excuse me,” he said politely, and went to take his position in the scene. The bell rang.

  Dean Martin abruptly turned up and visited for a while, to which Lemmon remained essentially oblivious, even when Dean slapped him on the back, smiled weakly when Martin kissed MacLaine loudly (see Martin chapter). Joe La Shelle, the director of photography, asked Lemmon whether he was going to wear his hat at that angle for the entire shot. Lemmon turned to him vaguely: “I’m sorry, Joe, would you repeat your question? I wasn’t listening.” The bell rang.

  Lemmon as a gendarme and Shirley MacLaine as a poule in Billy Wilder’s adaptation (without songs) of the hit musical Irma La Douce (1963), the director’s not very successful attempt to duplicate the magic of Lemmon and MacLaine in his The Apartment of three years earlier.

  Wilder asked Jacobi to practice pouring the drink. Nervously, the actor complied. Wilder: “Too soon, Lou. Count to four and then pour. Can you do that?” Jacobi nodded. “Let me hear you do that.” Jacobi counted to four. “Brilliant!” cried Wilder. “But slower.” Lemmon smiled sympathetically at Jacobi: “Now take three giant steps forward.” Jacobi grinned appreciatively. “All right now, Jack Lemmon,” said Wilder. “Are you ready, Academy Avard Vinner—thrice nominated, tvice screwed by very inferior talent?” Lemmon nodded.

  The first three takes were spoiled by MacLaine, who had trouble with props and lines. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” she said, flippantly. Lemmon gave her a blank look. After several more takes, Wilder declared: “This is the slowest company in Hollywood. Stevens started The Greatest Story Ever Told last week, and Jesus is bar mitzvahed already.” The bell rang.

  After two more unsatisfactory takes, Dean Martin left and Lemmon frowned, growling to himself: “I’m acting. I’m acting.” Finally, the shot was completed and two takes printed, one at Lemmon’s request. It was election day: “OK, kids,” said Wilder, “vote for [Governor Pat] Brown and let’s go home.” Lemmon sauntered off the set, removing his jacket. “I’m not sure about that scene,” he said, uneasily. “I’ll have to see the dailies.” He shook his head. “Yeah, I gotta see that one before I’ll be sure it was all right.”

  Opposite Stage 5 is Jack Lemmon’s permanent dressing room, a comfortable but sparsely furnished little apartment. Lemmon sat behind a large white desk, and Dick Carter, his press agent, and I sat on a long sofa. He called his wife—actress Felicia Farr—to make sure she was meeting us for dinner, had a couple of drinks, and spoke of the necessity of “unwinding” after a day on the set. “You can’t just go home,” he said. After a while, Wilder, Jacobi, an actress and an assistant director burst into the dressing room. They were all seated, had drinks and crackers, made jokes, told stories (most of them lewd). Lemmon listened quietly, leaning back in his chair; he contributed one story. A half-hour later, everyone left. Lemmon showered (“Just take me a minute—don’t want to keep Feleesh waiting alone”), put on a sport shirt, khakis and a sweater (“We could go to Chasen’s or something but I haven’t any other clothes here”), and we went outside. He got in his beige XKE Jaguar, adjusted his cap with flair and, the top down, drove to Chianti’s, a little Italian restaurant not far from the studio. I followed in my car. When we arrived, he suggested I park at the curb instead of in the lot because, he said, his car had once been broken into while it was in the lot. The restaurant owner came out and advised us not to park at the curb because there was a sign forbidding it. “I’ve been parking there for weeks,” said Lemmon quizzically, “never noticed that sign.”

  We went inside. The employees treated Lemmon like a regular customer and Lemmon treated them as old friends. At one of the front tables, a little girl stood up in her place. “There goes Jack Lemmon, Mommy,” she said in an awed whisper. Her parents looked around; Lemmon didn’t see this. We were seated in a back booth. We ordered drinks and after a short while, Felicia Farr Lemmon, a tall, slender, determined-looking woman with soft amber hair, arrived wearing a two-piece beige dress with a string of pearls around her neck. Jack kissed her and told her she looked lovely. We ordered pepper steaks. Jack told me they had just been married about a month ago in Paris; Wilder was their best man. More drinks—martinis—were ordered. We discussed people’s names; Jack telling me that Felicia’s real first name was Olive. “Olive Lemmon,” he grinned. “What d’ya think of that?” The food was served. We got on the subject of reading; the Lemmons both said they read a great deal. Felicia said that when she was small she used to take books with her whenever she had to visit relat
ives because she got so bored. Lemmon looked at her with surprise and then kissed her gently on the cheek. He mentioned that he read very fast and often worried therefore how much he retained. “I do everything too fast,” he said. “Read, talk, smoke, eat, everything. I read in the bathroom every morning,” he said mischievously. “Mums, Dad and Poopoo taught me to go every morning, without fail; sometimes I just pretend, but I always go.”

  We got on the subject of articles written about the actor. “I’m very bad copy,” Lemmon said, taking a bite of his steak. “People are always making things up about me so I’ll sound more interesting. They write articles like ‘Jack Lemmon’s 17 Rules for Bachelorhood’ or something. Let’s face it, I’m an actor, I love my work, and that’s the story.” Felicia grinned. “Yeah, we’re not interesting. Why don’t we do an article about you?” Jack laughed and said that was a great idea.

  I asked him about his late boss, Harry Cohn, for years the head of Columbia Pictures, and one of the most feared men in the industry. “We got along,” Lemmon said, finishing his drink. “He was fantastic. Crude. Rude. But he was tough—and he was honest.” Felicia looked at him skeptically. “He’d never knife you in the back,” Lemmon went on. “He’d show it to you and then let you have it. And I don’t think he respected anyone who treated him like a boss. I never once saw him with a riding crop, never once saw him with a clenched fist.” Felicia asked Jack to order another drink. He did.

  After dinner, Jack told Felicia that he thought Lou Jacobi was having a hard time on the set and what did she think of going over to his hotel and maybe trying to cheer him up. She smiled and said she thought that would be nice. Jack excused himself to call. His wife looked after him for a moment, and then turned to me with a tough smile. “Jack can’t believe there’s evil in anybody,” she said. “He forces me to be the cynical one, just by refusing to see anything really bad in a person. He’s kind of like a child that way.” She sipped her drink. “Jack’s always desperately hurt when someone does something cruel. And surprised. He never thinks someone might be trying to take advantage of him. My friends are amazed at how sensible I’ve become. I didn’t used to be so practical.”

  On our way to Jacobi’s hotel, I drove behind Lemmon, and his wife, in a Lincoln Continental, drove behind me. Nearing the hotel on Sunset Boulevard, a car with two women turned left unexpectedly. Lemmon braked quickly and so did I, but Felicia was caught unaware and bumped me slightly. We drove up the hotel driveway, followed by the two women. When we had parked, Lemmon strode over to them. The driver stuck her head out the window and apologized. “You know you could’ve caused a bad accident turning like that,” said Lemmon. “Yes, I’m awfully sorry,” she repeated. “Well, you should be,” he answered testily. The women pulled away sheepishly. Lemmon grinned and walked over to me. “I don’t know if it’s because of the picture or what,” he said, laughing giddily, “but I could swear those two were hookers.”

  Upstairs, Jacobi and his wife, a bit sleepy-eyed, were dressed, and had ordered champagne. Lou poured out drinks all around; his wife said it was a real pleasure to have Jack there. Felicia sat moodily on a sofa; she sipped her drink once. Jack did an impersonation of Jacobi and everyone laughed. Felicia quietly mentioned a woman’s name and asked Jack who she was. Jack looked at her dimly and asked her to repeat the name. She did—twice. He remembered then and told her she was an actress he had worked with once. Felicia nodded. Jacobi talked about an experience he’d had on Broadway. Felicia got up suddenly and said thickly that she’d have to be going now. Lemmon looked up and asked what was wrong. She said nothing and that we should all stay; she headed for the door. Jack stood and quickly drained his glass of champagne. Jacobi and his wife were standing. “Wait a minute,” said Lemmon, “I’ll go with you.” Felicia shook her head. “No, it’s all right, John, you stay.” Jack grinned. “We’re going the same way, you know,” he said, lamely. Felicia was out by the elevator. Mrs. Jacobi asked if they’d said something to upset her. Jack assured them they hadn’t and that he’d see them tomorrow. He closed the door behind him. The Jacobis looked at each other. “I hope it wasn’t something we said,” Mrs. Jacobi repeated.

  Jack Lemmon with Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis in Billy Wilder’s enormously popular screwball comedy of the twenties, Some Like It Hot (1959), released only three years before Marilyn’s sudden death. It was Lemmons first of six pictures with Wilder.

  The next morning. Thursday. Jack meandered over to me on the set and I asked if Felicia was feeling better. He explained, simply, that it had all been a minor misunderstanding. She had seen someone’s name in his appointment book and mistaken it for an old girlfriend. He shrugged his shoulders slightly. “It wasn’t anything,” he said, evenly.

  The shot: In a cutaway police van—camera was to start on a close-up of Lemmon, standing at the rear of the van, and then pull back to reveal about eighteen prostitutes in various states of undress, all trying to rearrange their clothing.

  Rehearsal: “As the camera goes back,” Wilder instructed, “I’d like to see how clever you are vith business. Let me see now vhat you’re going to do.” The girls writhed and wiggled into their clothes. Lemmon reacted appropriately. Wilder (to a buxom girl in a clinging dress): “Susie, you look like a schoolteacher. We vill have to invent some business for poor Susie. Can’t you pull the dress over your head?” The girl shrugged. “Sure I can,” she said, pulling her dress up past her thighs. “But I gotta put some clothes on—I mean, I haven’t got any panties on.” A couple of makeup women appeared and climbed into the van; they applied body makeup to the ladies’ exposed backs, legs, arms. Wilder (watching): “This is the most expensive pornographic film ever made.” Then to Lemmon: “Are you vith it, Jack?” Lemmon (from inside the van): “I’m gettin’ in the mood, D.W. [a reference to film pioneer D. W. Griffith]. My image is that I’m in a candy store, right? And I can’t make up my mind.” Shirley MacLaine’s double left the van and the actress took her place.

  The takes: The bell rang. Wilder: “All right—babble! And action!” The girls wiggled, squirmed and babbled into their clothes. Two bells. Wilder: “Julie! Are you doing anything back there?” Lemmon: “Is she ever! And mind your own business.” A tray of dixie cups filled with water was passed back into the van; Lemmon helped distribute them. There were five takes, after which everyone left the van. A few minutes later, Mrs. Lemmon, the actor’s mother, a short, gray-haired lady with pale blue eyes, came on the set accompanied by several other women. “Hi, doll,” she said as her son came over. “How are all your little whores?” She introduced him to her friends and Lemmon shook hands politely with each of them.

  The shot: Inside the van again, Lemmon was to react to one of the girls (Tura Satana) adjusting her bra. The takes: While doing the shot, the stripper (on Wilder’s whispered suggestion) tried to help the reality of Lemmon’s reaction by pulling down the front of her bra for a second, exposing herself to the actor. Lemmon reacted with a tiny squeal and then started laughing and so did everyone else. Crew members craned their necks to get a peek at what was going on, but by then all was concealed again. The shot was completed without further incident. Lemmon undid his jacket and jumped from the van. “You were very quiet in there, Jackie,” his mother said to him. Lemmon looked at her and shook his head. “I don’t have any lines in this scene,” he said.

  The following Saturday afternoon at the NBC-TV studios in Burbank, Lemmon rehearsed for the show he was to tape the next evening. Wearing khakis and a green sweater, he doodled alone at a grand piano. After a while, he decided to have some lunch and Dick Carter and I joined him. Walking toward the “Artists’ Entrance,” a uniformed male receptionist asked if any of us knew how to spell the French word “derrière.” Lemmon stopped. “Yeah. Wait a minute,” he said. “It’s D-E-R-I-E-double-R-E, isn’t it? With one of those doohickeys over the second to last E. I think that’s it.” The man thanked him and we continued out of the building. As we stepped into the parking lot, Lemmon stopped
again. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Is it D-E-R-I-E-double-R-E or D-E-double-R-I-E-R-E?” Carter shrugged his shoulders. “I think the double-R comes first,” Lemmon said, turning. “I better tell him. Be right back.” He trotted up to the door and went back inside. Carter grinned at me. A few seconds later, Lemmon reappeared and nodded his head once. “Done,” he said.

  The restaurant was dimly lit and occupied by about a dozen men, most of them at the bar watching a football game on television. “What’s the score?” Lemmon asked as we came in. One of the men told him. The three of us sat at a center table. “What were the final odds goin’ in?” he called to the group at the bar. Someone gave him the information. From where he sat, Lemmon could see the TV set and he watched the game for a few moments. “I love football,” he said, turning toward me. “Probably because I could never play it. Too light. Broke my nose twice trying.” He ordered a martini and a hamburger with onion. “Who’s got the ball?” he called out again. Someone told him. The drinks arrived and then the sandwiches. Carter asked Jack what he’d done that morning. “I woke up early,” he answered, biting into his hamburger. “And I read a very good article on Shakespeare in Realities. It’s really incredible, you know, that possibly England’s most fantastic man is also probably its least-known man. This piece debunks the possibility that Shakespeare was ill-educated. It says that being a brilliant man, you really can’t find Shakespeare himself through his characters, but only out of certain recurring images. Like the snail, for instance. Interesting, huh?”

  A phone call came through requesting Lemmon to return to the TV studio. He hurriedly finished his meal and we got up to go. Coming out of the restaurant, we passed a middle-aged couple on their way in. As the actor walked by them, they both turned and stared after him for several moments. Lemmon didn’t notice this. Going back through the artists’ entrance, the receptionist looked up from his book. “D-E-double-R …” said Lemmon, without stopping. The receptionist laughed.