I saw Ford’s Hangman’s House [1928] and—
Oh, Jesus! There was the third time! That one pretty near really cost me my career—and I thought it had. I was at school, and the prop man Lefty Huff called me up and said, “Pappy Ford says there’s a young Irish boy got to be hung in this picture. He’s got to be in the prisoner’s box, and we’re gonna do it tonight. If you wanna pick up seven and a half, fine. Come on over.” So I went over, and they had me standing in the prisoner’s box. And a very dramatic actor—Christ, I can’t remember his name—played the judge [Hobart Bosworth]. Anyway, he was telling all the cowboys how he used to do his own stunts—he was really carrying on—and I’d had quite a bit of listening to this fella talk—as the young always have, I guess, when older people tell about their past glories. So this fella begins his line: “And ye shall hang by the neck until you are dead, dead, dead!” And as he points, the camera moves up to a close-up. Well, about the third time they were doing this I said, “AAAAMEN!” And all the noise on the set—still silent pictures, remember—stopped right then, so this “AAAAMEN” came out like a bullhorn! Jesus, I got all the attention in the room, and Jack says, “Get that sonofabitch out of the prisoner’s box! Get him off the stage! Get him off the goddamned lot! I don’t ever want to see him again!” Well, shit, I went over and got out of my clothes, started out the front gate, and old Lefty Huff stops me; he says, “Come here.” And I says, “What?” “Stay the hell out of sight—Jack doesn’t want the old sonofabitch to see you because you’d ruin the guy’s performance. Just stay the hell out of sight.” So that’s the way it was. I thought I was through.
You also played a spectator at the—
Oh, that was a Saturday thing where I broke down the fence.
It was very funny, you walking over the fence.
Actually, I think that was before school started. I was propping at that time.
And he just put you in.
He just stuck me in there. He did that in Men Without Women [1930]. And I don’t think Jack really started appreciating me until Men Without Women, one of his first sound pictures. They needed a fella talking to the divers, and he looked around and said, “All right, you, get in there.” He had fifteen actors, and we were out between San Diego and Catalina—all the destroyers are finally coming back at the right time—and I have an air hose out into the water, and each actor is supposed to go out, duck down in the air bubbles, and be picked up. But I want to tell ya, this was one of those gunmetal-gray days—the swells were about the size of this house—and these guys took a dim view of what they were supposed to do. Well, here comes the fleet with that black smoke comin’ out of the destroyers, and the light just hitting everything right, and I knew: “Jesus, what the hell is the matter—why don’t they go?” I was up on amidships deck with this hose, and I turned it over to somebody else and ran to the edge. Ford said, “Duke!” I said, “Yessir!” and I hit the goddamned water and swam out there, went down under, and came up for all of ‘em! All except one guy, an old bald-headed guy, J. Farrell MacDonald. He was a wonderful actor; he got drunk on wine the night before and felt so guilty that he jumped in the water.
Well, Ford appreciated that. ’Cause I appreciated it. That was the time I started looking at pictures with a different view. I was beginning to enjoy this work, and thinking about how long it’d be before I’d get any place if I took the law course I had been planning on. I was going to school with kids whose fathers and uncles all had law firms and I started thinking I’ll end up writing briefs in the back room for these bastards for ten years. I tell ya, the picture business started lookin’ pretty good.
Were you thinking specifically of being an actor?
No. I wanted to be on the production end of the business, and so naturally I wanted to be a director. Now, let’s face it, I just looked up to this man Ford—he was a big hero to me. He was intelligent and quick-thinking. Had great initiative. It was just wonderful to be around him. He kept you alive and on your toes. Of course, I started watching what he was doing, how he was working on people.
Somebody said that you walk like he does, but I don’t think that’s quite accurate.
Oh, Christ, no.
You have a great walk.
That’s how Walsh first noticed me.
Did Ford recommend you to Raoul Walsh for the lead in The Big Trail?
I understand he did, though I didn’t hear about that until after I had made the picture. I believe the first time Walsh saw me was during a Fox picnic. We were out there having a few bottles of beer—I was gettin’ over a horrible hangover. It was a hot day, and I had on a Harris tweed suit—I remember that. Finally this electrician says, “Jeez, we haven’t anyone in any of these picnic events—Duke, you go in.” I said, “OK, what’s the next event?” A walking contest! Well, how are you gonna walk and keep the heel down and the toe down! There was this little sonofabitch about five feet tall, and he was right on my ass all the way around. I’d taken off the coat, I had on suspenders and those hot tweed pants, and I’m trying to beat this fuckin’ little grip that’s just right on my ass!
Walsh was going crazy at the time because, with talk in pictures, they were sendin’ out all these New York actors in these phony outfits with phony whips and phony shoes—and he had to see their tests every day. Now that there was sound, these old motion-picture directors of the silent days were supposed to be out, but fellas like Ford and Walsh still had the great prestige, so they couldn’t put ’em down too much. Walsh still had to go through all this crap, though, and he just got sick and tired of it one day, and he saw me run across the street with a table on my head. It must have reminded him of the picnic. Actually, I was goin’ to a Ford set, and Walsh asked [producer] Eddie Grainger who I was, and Eddie yelled to me. I came over, we were introduced, and then Walsh came over to the set; I guess he talked to Ford then. That night, as I was leaving, Eddie came around: “Jesus, don’t cut your hair—Walsh wants to take a test of you for this picture.”
And you hadn’t thought about being an actor?
It was the furthest thing from my mind. But a funny thing happened with Ford after The Big Trail. He was a strange character, you know. After I did that picture, I came back, and he was making Up the River [1930]. I went over and said, “Hi, coach.” Nothing. I thought he didn’t hear me. So I figured, Oh, well, he didn’t see me. The next time I saw him I went, “Hi, coach, hi.” And again I didn’t get anything. So the next time I just went right up in front of him and went, “Hi, coach.” And he turned and talked to somebody else. I thought, That’s that—he won’t speak to me. I don’t know how the hell I can communicate. About two years later, I was in Catalina with Ward [Bond], having a belt, and Barbara [Ford], his daughter—she was a little girl then—she ran in and said, “Daddy wants to see you.” I said, “Whoa, wait a minute, Barbara, you got the wrong boy—must be Ward.” She said, “No, it’s you, Duke.” So I said, “Yeah, honey, run along, you know this is a bar.” So his wife, Mary Ford, came to the door and she said, “Duke, come here. Jack is expecting you out there.” I said, “All right.” So I went out to the Araner, his boat, and I go aboard—I remember Jim Tully was there and four or five guys—and Jack was in the middle of a goddamn story, and he looked up at me and said, “Hi, Duke, sit down.” And to this goddamn day I don’t know why he didn’t speak to me for two years.
John Wayne as Sheriff John T. Chance and Angie Dickinson as Feathers in Howard Hawks’ supremely laid-back town-Western, Rio Bravo (1959). An entirely character-driven film, it’s the shortest 141 minutes in picture history, and among Wayne’s most likeable performances.
Everything was OK from then on.
He acted like he’d seen me the day before.
And you saw quite a bit of him before making Stagecoach.
Well, then, for ten years we were very close. Whenever I had vacations or he had vacations we usually took ’em together and actually I went to the Isthmus [of Panama] a lot and they were always over there on his
Araner. As a matter of fact, the sightseeing boats used to go by and say, “That’s John Wayne’s boat.” And Jack would stand up and say, “Yeah, this is John Wayne.”
But it was almost ten years before he cast you in Stagecoach.
Yeah, he was talking to me one day, and he said, “Jesus, I’ve got a great story here—you want to read it?” I read it—it was just a little short story—“Stage to Lordsburg.” He said, “Who the hell in this business could play that part?” I said, “There’s only one guy.” He said, “Who is it?” I said, “Lloyd Nolan. He played in Two for Texas—have you seen that picture?” He said, “No. For Chrissakes, couldn’t you play it?” Jesus, it knocked me out. Now I was afraid he’d go see the Nolan picture! And that was three years before he finally settled down to make it.
The wonderful thing was that he really fought for me to play the part. Most people say they’ll do things like that, but he really did. Goldwyn wanted him to make it with Gary Cooper. The studio I was at, which was Republic, had no idea of the value of my doing a thing like that, so they weren’t very cooperative. It was touch and go as to whether I’d make it.
For ten years I had been making these quickie Westerns, and I just thought I was stuck there. ’Cause, you know, they thought if they put John Wayne in a picture, they can get him down the street for five bucks in any one of those hundred Westerns I’d made before I made Stagecoach. So I didn’t really expect anything like that—it turned out terrific, for me.
What was it like to make?
Well, having been a prop man, I think I knew more about props. I mean, I don’t profess to be the greatest actor and here I was working with Tom [Thomas] Mitchell, you know, and a top cast. After we’d been on the picture for a couple of weeks, Ford said, “Would you like to see some of the stuff?” I said, “Oh, yeah.” He said, “Well, Lovey, the cutter [Otto Lovering], he’s running some of it, why don’t you go up and ask him if he’ll let you—you’re not going to work here for a couple of hours.” So I went up, and I saw quite a bit of it. Now, during the picture, Old Gravel Throat Andy Devine is driving the stagecoach. And I had found out that in order to make it look natural driving those things in close angles, you had to put one of those rubber exercisers—a shock cord—on the other end of those lines to give it tension. Otherwise it looked monotonous. Of course, only to someone who’s really technically interested in how a fella drives a six-up [coach with six horses]. This I didn’t realize then as I do now. But I wanted to be of some help, so I told the prop guy to get it, he didn’t get it, and I was sore as a sonofabitch. So now I see the picture, and Ford says, “Well, how did you like it?” I said, “Well, it’s just magnificent, coach, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.” He said, “How do you like Mitchell?” “Oh, he’s great!” “How do you like Claire [Trevor]?” “Great!” “Well, how do you like yourself?” I said, “Well, hell, I’m playing you, so—you know what I’m doing.” He said, “Well, Jesus, Duke, you’ve looked at the whole goddamned thing, isn’t there one criticism, one constructive criticism you can give me? You’re acting like a schoolboy.” I said, “All right, that sonofabitching prop man—that thing with Andy …” I’d noticed that, and I told him. He said, “Oh. Wait a minute. All right, everybody, down here!” He brought the goddamned electricians down off the lights, he gathered everybody around in the center of the stage, and he said, “Well, I just sent our young star in to see his first effort. And he’s very well satisfied with himself, and with the rest of the cast, but he thinks Andy Devine stinks!” Well, Christ, what do you do?
Luckily, I knew Andy very well. As a matter of fact, when they were making Noah’s Ark they called our school and wanted kids over six foot to come out for $15 a day and swim while they broke the temple down on top of us. Another fella and I were standing together and Andy came up beside me and he says, “Hey, give me a hand, will you?” And he put a hand on my shoulder and a hand on this other guy’s shoulder, and he’s that big around, he’s the first one they picked, you know. So that’s how far back I went with Andy Devine, and I could explain to him what happened. But, Jesus Christ, what a dirty, miserable, mean, Irish, frigging trick.
That’s typical of him?
Yeah. That’s the way he keeps you in your place.
What did you mean when you said you were playing him?
Well, obviously this was a character Jack liked very much, and he was careful to put him in a good light professionally—I don’t mean in a spotlight. Any time there was a chance for a reaction—which is the most important thing in a motion picture—he always took reactions of me, so I’d be a part of every scene. Because I had a great deal of time in the picture when other people were talking, and all my stuff was just reactions. They become very important throughout a picture, they build your part. They always say I’m in action pictures, but it’s in reaction pictures that they remember me—pictures that are full of reactions, but have a background of action. Well, Ford treated me with great care, so I knew he liked that particular character as well as me, and I think this is what he would have wanted a young man to be. So it’s him.
How would he direct you?
Well, I remember one of the ways—he made sure that all the cast were on my side. I’m not sure whether he did it for that reason or not, but it worked out that way. I had a scene—they’re all talking about what they’re gonna do about the Indians and all that shit—I’m washing my face and I say, “I’ll go with you, Sheriff.” And he’d say, “Cut!” We were about halfway through the scene. He said, “For Chrissakes, wash your face! Don’t you ever wash at home?” He says, “You’re daubing your face, you’re daubing it!” Shit, I was so fucking mad I wanted to kill him. And he got the whole cast hating him for doin’ that—until finally even Tim Holt, the young kid, was saying, “Goddammit, quit picking on Duke like that.” Shit, I had the whole cast on my side from then on.
You think he planned it that way?
Yeah, I do. I think mainly he pushed me there because although I was part of the scene, I was in the background. So if he pounded on me there, it wasn’t too important. But when I had a scene to do, he left me alone.
The character everybody associates you with really began with Hawks’ Red River, didn’t it? Before that, the characters you were playing were straighter, not so ornery.
That’s right. I had found kind of a niche that I fit into rather well, and it was a character that the public liked.
You weren’t worried about playing old too soon?
No. Hell, I was young, and this was a challenge. The only thing that I worried about with Hawks, I was afraid he would make me petty. In one scene, two fellas decide to leave and I tell them they can’t. And the kid [Montgomery Clift] and Cherry [John Ireland] back me up. Well, ahead of that Hawks wanted me to be nervous and irascible and frightened and now the kid steps forward and saves my life. I didn’t take too kindly to that. And it was best for the picture that I didn’t. But I tell you, one of the nice things about Howard on Red River—and one of the things that struck Ford—is that Howard told every news conference that he couldn’t have made the picture if he hadn’t had John Wayne, which was a wonderful compliment.
John Wayne as Sean and Maureen O’Hara as Mary Kate near the conclusion of John Ford’s beautiful comedy–love story set in Ireland, The Quiet Man (1952), Wayne’s most romantic movie role; this was the second of three Ford-Wayne-O’Hara pictures, and the actors appeared together in two other non-Ford films. O’Hara would call Wayne her best friend in show business.
Is it true Ford said he never thought you could act until he saw Red River?
When we did She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, he gave me a cake with one candle on it. You see, I was just part of the family. He never thought of me as an actor, and then he saw Red River, and he wanted to top it, and he did. He gave me that part in Yellow Ribbon, where I play a sixty-five-year-old guy. I wasn’t forty then, and I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. Outside of this one—True Grit, I think, is such
a colorful part. The hard things to do are the things like The Quiet Man [1952], where you have to stay alive for eight reels before you really come into a part.
What was the candle for?
Actor. I had finally arrived.
What was Ford’s direction to you about playing a Swede in The Long Voyage Home [1940]?
Well, I was on another picture right up to the night before I went to work. So they hired a girl—she was actually a Dane—to talk to me about these lines and things. But I went onto the picture cold. I had no chance to see anybody or even talk to a Swede so I had no real feeling for it. And he tried to give me a couple of lines at the beginning. He realized I wasn’t any good, so he got this girl. Then I had quite a long scene with Mildred Natwick and he had me work with this girl on the scene and he never heard it or anything until the day we were going to shoot and he said, “Well, sit down here and read the lines.” I read the lines. He said, “All right, put the camera here.” And he shot the scene. But that was the only really hard scene to do. Because with any kind of an ear you can—Christ, those first couple of days, it didn’t sound like Swedish to me.
I’m surprised John Qualen didn’t do it for you. He does such a great Swedish accent.
Well, I had to be careful because Qualen’s a comic, humorous thing and he has a tendency to put that kind of a reading on things. So I had to be really careful not to pick that up at all.
It’s been said that when Ford worked with you, particularly in the early days, he didn’t let you talk too much. He liked to have you react rather than talk.
He didn’t like anybody to talk. If he had anyone talk he’d like to have a [John] Carradine talk who could display great histrionics and he could stay away from him and cut to reactions of other people throughout the man’s story. This is what in his mind makes for good pictures and I agree with him. He taught me that a reaction is the most valuable thing you can have on a picture. Having made so many cheap quickie pictures, I’m in a position to know the difference between the two. The quickie things they imagine that I do, and I have done them certainly, are those kind of pictures in which you tell the audience what you’re going to do, then you go do it, and then you tell them what you’ve done, then you tell them what you’re going to do next. So any time you walk into a scene, the only person who has a chance is either the comic—they might stop the picture long enough to give him a funny line—or the heavy, whom you’re telling the audience how you’re going to catch.
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