Somebody

by Stefan Kanfer

  When the shooting was over in Europe, the entire crew left for the States. The movie’s climactic North African battle scenes were filmed in the California desert. In a concluding scene Marlon was required to ride a motorcycle, with his captain straddling the back of the bike. The German officers are exhausted, and Diestl tries to stay awake by saying anything that comes to mind. Marlon saw a chance to address one of his favorite topics: the history of racial injustice in the United States. He called Dmytryk aside. Wouldn’t it be a great idea if Diestl recited a litany of prejudicial incidents as he rode? To humor Marlon, the director asked for a one-page monologue. Marlon returned with a ten-page screed. In it he went on about the Scottsboro Boys, nine blacks who were framed in 1931 for rapes they didn’t commit, as well as details about the government’s genocidal treatment of the American Indian. Dmytryk read on. As gently as possible, he informed Marlon that the speech wouldn’t work in the context and tempo of the picture. Undeterred, Marlon came up with another suggestion. Christian Diestl was to die at the finale, shot by Michael Whiteacre. What if he were to tumble forward into barbed wire, his arms out, his body limp, as in a crucifixion? This was too much for his costar. When Monty overheard the proposal he told Dmytryk, “If Marlon’s allowed to do that, I’ll walk off the picture.” The director intervened. In the end, Marlon was not allowed to impersonate Christ, and Monty didn’t walk off the picture. Christian simply tumbled forward, and lay dead, facedown, in a pool of muddy water. He kept his face in the liquid so long the technicians thought something really did happen to him. As they ran down to the prostrate figure, Marlon suddenly rose. With great satisfaction he informed them, “I could always hold my breath longer than anyone else.”

  3

  As The Young Lions concluded filming, a pressing matter arose. Marlon’s main girlfriend, Anna Kashfi, weary of his notorious affairs, ranging from France Nuyen, the soon-to-be star of The World of Suzie Wong, to his longtime girlfriend Rita Moreno, played her trump card. She was pregnant. Marlon was at once intrigued with the idea of fatherhood and intimidated by visions of a wedding. Carlo Fiore had never been a fan of Anna’s; he advised Marlon to give her everything but his hand. Marlon reminded him, “But it’s my child, too.” Translation: Abortion was unthinkable, illegitimacy unbearable, marriage inevitable.

  The wedding was held at the home of Marlon’s aunt Betty, in Eagle Rock. Among the attendees were Jocelyn and Eliot Asinof, Marlon senior, even though Marlon had initially refused to have the old man—“I’ll bury him before I do”—as well as Anna’s friends western novelist Louis L’Amour and his wife. Marlon wore a dark blue suit; it contrasted with his still-bleached hair. Anna was dressed in a sari. That costume was to be her undoing.

  Less than a week after the nuptials, a rumor began to make its way around Hollywood. Prowling journalists had made a discovery. The bride was not Anna Kashfi after all. Her real name was Joanna Mary O’Callaghan, and she was not an Indian. She was the daughter of a dark-skinned Frenchwoman and an English railroad worker currently living in Wales. William Patrick O’Callaghan had worked on an Indian railroad when his imaginative daughter was very young. But, he assured the reporter who tracked him down, “there is no Indian blood in our family.” Joanna had been a waitress and a cashier before moving to London, where she enjoyed a brief career as a runway model. She changed her name, concocted her illustrious background, went to Hollywood, and won a role in The Mountain. Then had come the epochal seduction of Brando, while he thought he was seducing her.

  Pondering the vagaries of love, Samuel Johnson remarked, “Were it not for imagination a man would be as happy in the arms of a chambermaid as of a duchess.” So it was for Marlon. Formerly he had been bedazzled by the costumes, sandalwood perfume, and subcontinental aura of an Indian houri. When it became known that Miss Kashfi was one more pretender in a city of frauds, his interest rapidly flagged. In this he was backed by Marlon senior, who had thought all along that Anna was a dissembler. His disdain for her was matched by that of Anna’s father for Marlon junior, calling him “a bum”—though not to his face. The union was doomed from the start. Nevertheless, the couple bought a place at 12900 Mulholland Drive, a sprawling twelve-room house on two fenced-in acres. Marlon was to live there, off and on, for the rest of his life. Their child, Christian Devi, was born in wedlock on May 11, 1958. The first name was in honor of Marlon’s friend Christian Marquand, the second was the Sanskrit word for goddess—Anna had not given up on her story of Indian parentage. O’Callaghan, she insisted, was her stepfather.

  According to Anna, Marlon came to her hospital bed and vowed, “From now on, I’ll be a perfect husband.” No doubt he meant it at the time; the status of fatherhood brought tears to his eyes. It took less than two months for the vow to be broken. Marlon entered the house one afternoon with France Nuyen on his arm. She was youthful and glamorous, Anna recalled, while “I probably looked like the old woman who lived in a shoe.” She ran into the bedroom, bawling. Marlon followed, disingenuously asking what had upset her. She consulted her watch and began a countdown. He had exactly thirty seconds to get his girlfriend out of the house. The couple left together. Marlon returned that night, unapologetic.

  The marriage held together for a few more weeks. Then in June, Marlon Brando, Sr., remarried. Marlon junior had not been invited to the wedding. His father’s second wife was Anichka Paramore, the widowed daughter of a venture capitalist. She bore a strong resemblance to Dodie and she was twenty-eight (six years Junior’s junior), and Marlon junior couldn’t bear the sight of her. When Senior called from New York on his honeymoon, Anna congratulated him and handed the phone to Marlon. He grabbed it angrily, barked, “Hi, Pop, I hope you’ll be happy,” slammed down the receiver, and yelled at his wife for making him talk to a man he now despised.

  That response was followed by other surly encounters. Matters were not helped by the critical reaction to The Young Lions. Montgomery Clift was almost universally lauded: Time said the character of Noah Ackerman was “funny and touching” Newsweek found Monty’s performance “virtually flawless,” and the Herald Tribune called him “superb in his inarticulate anguish.” On the other hand, Time said that Marlon had underplayed his role to such an extent that “only a telepathist could hope to tell what he’s thinking.” Brando’s customary supporter Bosley Crowther was disturbed by the actor’s revisionist approach. He told readers of The New York Times that Irwin Shaw’s “unregenerative Nazi” had been irresponsibly “changed to a very nice young man.” The New Yorker reviewer agreed with that assessment: As impersonated by Marlon, Diestl had turned into “a poor young mixed-up skier who wishes he didn’t have to go around shooting people.”

  Financial troubles arose. Marlon senior had completely mismanaged Pennebaker’s funds, and it was now a company in name only. Yet Marlon junior still could not bring himself to fire his father. Despite a history of antagonism, the men and their wives sometimes dined together after Senior returned from the East, often accompanied by a third couple, Wally and Marilyn Cox, who now lived nearby. Mister Peepers had run its course, and the Coxes had moved to the Coast in search of work. The only path open to Wally was a series of guest shots on TV programs, where he often appeared tipsy or out-and-out drunk. He remained a discreet friend, never speaking publicly of the war between the Brandos. Marilyn was not so reticent. She noted that father and son “couldn’t get enough of each other, even though there was no love lost.” The strange filial relationship was not to survive much longer.

  To salvage Pennebaker’s reputation, the company slated several films for production: The Naked Edge with Gary Cooper and Deborah Kerr; Shake Hands with the Devil, a melodrama about the 1921 Irish rebellion starring James Cagney; and Paris Blues, a contemporary jazz-centered movie with Paul Newman and Sidney Poitier. There was no hotter word than integration just then. The 1954 Supreme Court decision Brown v. Board of Education had specifically outlawed the southern tradition of “separate but equal” schools. But the law moved slowly
, and three years later Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus defied the courts by keeping a Little Rock high school 100 percent white. To effect integration there, it took an order by President Eisenhower, federalizing the state National Guard to guarantee the safety and security of nine black children as they mounted the steps of the school and entered formerly segregated classrooms. The event was as dramatic as anything since the war, and Hollywood battened on it. “And what did [Stanley] Kramer give us?” Marlon disdainfully asked a friend. “The Defiant Ones.” That film told of two prisoners, one white (Tony Curtis), one black (Sidney Poitier), manacled together in jail—and, with top-heavy symbolism, after their escape.

  Marlon was keenly aware of James Baldwin’s appraisal, addressed to the mostly white audience of Playboy magazine: The black man is manacled to the white man. When the chains are finally broken, Poitier has a chance to escape, but rather than flee “he jumps off the train and they buddy-buddy back together to the same old Jim Crow chain gang.” Baldwin saw the movie twice. Downtown, his liberal friends applauded the brotherhood theme. Then he viewed it in Harlem. His black friends hooted at the screen and cursed Poitier for folding under pressure. Why is it necessary, Baldwin demanded, “at this late date, one screams at the world, to prove that the Negro doesn’t really hate you, he’s forgiven and forgotten all of it. Maybe he has. That’s not the problem. You haven’t. And that is the problem.”

  Marlon refused to play the white liberal’s game of guilt and expiation. Poitier would be different in Paris Blues—if only Pennebaker could get the money to produce it. That meant Marlon would have to go back to work. Reluctantly, he agreed to appear in a western. It was not A Burst of Vermilion, the feature he had been developing for years. This one was entitled One-Eyed Jacks, based on the novel The Authentic Death of Hendry Jones by Charles Neider. Producer Frank Rosenberg theorized that Marlon had been attracted to the oedipal drama because the villain’s name was Dad. In essence it was a revenge story of two outlaws, Rio and Dad, partners in malfeasance. Betrayed by Dad, Rio is caught and jailed. Years later he escapes from prison, thirsting for revenge. Meantime, Dad has gone straight. He’s now the sheriff of a small town on the California coast. The first part of Rio’s vengeance is the seduction of Dad’s daughter. Dad responds by giving Rio a public whipping and breaking his hand. Rio has the parting shot; he kills Dad and rides off with the young lady.

  Rosenberg purchased the screen rights to the book and worked out a rough scenario with Rod Serling, creator of the TV series The Twilight Zone. Sam Peckinpah was brought in to do a rewrite. Stanley Kubrick, whose powerful black-and-white features The Killing and Paths of Glory had so impressed Marlon, was signed to direct. Before the set was built Peckinpah gave way to Calder Willingham, author of End as a Man, the novel about a soul-destroying military school. But Willingham never made it to the finish line. He was replaced by Guy Trosper—and Stanley Kubrick was replaced by Marlon himself. There were many versions of just what led to Kubrick’s firing. Peter Manso’s account seems the most plausible. First there was the business of the film’s second lead. Kubrick wanted Spencer Tracy; Marlon insisted on Karl Malden, his friend since Streetcar. There was also difficulty about a female role. The film was supposed to take place in Monterey, California, during the 1880s. Even then the area had a sizable Asian population, and Marlon wanted his character, Rio, to dally with a Chinese girl. Kubrick asked Marlon who he favored for the role. Marlon suggested his current mistress, France Nuyen. Kubrick had three words for him: “She can’t act.”

  With that judgment, the director supplied the actor with a casus belli—even though Marlon would eventually split with Nuyen and hire another Asian actress. Even if Kubrick had agreed with all of Marlon’s choices, however, there was no way he was going to direct this picture. Marlon had another choice in mind—himself. Kubrick was coldly dismissed at a Paramount story conference. The director consoled himself with the way things worked out. If a well-known director had taken his place, it would have implied that Kubrick was short on aptitude or authority. But now that the producer/star had taken over, he told Fiore, “I’m off the hook.” That he was, and blithely went off to direct Lolita in London. From here on, it was Marlon who was hooked, with all eyes watching.

  4

  Reporters roamed the outdoor set of One-Eyed Jacks, watching Marlon as he ordered his cinematographers to get long shots of the Pacific Ocean. Like a champion surfer, they wrote, the idealist was waiting for the perfect wave. He was doing nothing of the kind, just trying to match the look of some footage he had shot the day before. But Marlon offered no objection to the tales. “I’ve learned that it’s useless to try to suppress stories like that. I don’t even bother to deny them. People will believe what they want to believe.”

  He kept his plans to himself, delphically remarking that “with this film I intend to storm the citadel of clichés.” The bromides he had in mind were the classic Western archetypes of swarthy black-hat villains, knight-errant heroes, and virtuous one-dimensional women. To achieve the deconstruction he had in mind, Marlon chose his cast with great care. The young love interest, Pina Pellicer, showed a sensitivity bordering on psychosis. (Tragically, it was not an act; she committed suicide several years later.) Other members included the Mexican actress Katy Jurado, the memorable Other Woman in High Noon; Ben Johnson, an authentic cowpoke who had been featured in many John Ford Westerns; Miriam Colon, an Actors Studio regular; and a number of reliable old pros, including Elisha Cook, Jr., Slim Pickens, and John Dierkes. Marlon paid particular attention to Johnson, trying to absorb his Oklahoma accent and laid-back attitude. As he slowly and deliberately went over details, One-Eyed Jacks began to leak money. Paramount executives sent notes and emissaries to the set. The burden of their message was simple: The movie was costing $50,000 a day. Marlon replied that he was making a picture not a budget, and kept on his own nonchalant pace. In one scene, for example, he was supposed to be plucking a rose from a bush and fantasizing about Pellicer as Ben Johnson stood by. He took so long, an assistant piped up. “Mr. Brando, don’t you think we should get this shot?” That was all Marlon had to hear. He told Johnson in an assumed Western voice, “Ben, go anywhere you want for three or four days, ’cause I’m going to be sittin’ on this rock.”

  Johnson got involved in another expensive scene. He was supposed to argue with one of the saddle tramps and then shoot him when he ran out of words. After repeated takes, Marlon was still unhappy with the henchman’s expression. An idea occurred to him. He put the man on a saddle mounted to a piece of wood, began to issue instructions—and then, without warning, smacked him in the face. The hurt, astonished reaction was wondrous to behold, everything Marlon had wanted from the beginning, except for one small matter. He had slapped the actor so hard he knocked off his mustache. The footage was unusable.

  As costs skyrocketed, the men from Paramount leaned harder. Marlon not only refused to break; he wouldn’t bend. He reminded the men in suits that this was an expansive era. Alaska had just become the forty-ninth state; Hawaii would soon be the fiftieth. People were buying houses as never before. A baby boom was under way. Hell, he had contributed to that. There was a new vaccine for polio. Life expectancy was up. An American satellite circled the earth. President Eisenhower was forever reminding us that we never had it so good. If movies were in trouble, if TV was making inroads, then it was the responsibility of Paramount to make bigger movies, not smaller ones. What was the point in scrimping on a masterpiece?

  In the face of his argument they backed off, and a film planned for three months’ shooting at a cost of under $2 million turned into an epic that took half a year to make and came in at $6 million. It was not a movie, cracked Frank Rosenberg; it was a way of life. Yet even the longest marathon comes to an end, and One-Eyed Jacks wound down on June 2, 1959. This was only phase one. Phase two was the editing of hours of footage. Marlon had almost no experience in a cutting room, and he was losing focus in every sense. The sorrows piled on. His psychiatris
t Bela Mittleman, sometimes a charlatan, sometimes a repairman, died after a short illness. The marriage of Jocelyn and Eliot Asinof was breaking up. She had begun to drink hard, Dodie-style. Anna Kashfi Brando was consulting a lawyer, preparing to leave Marlon because of his serial infidelities. The divorce would go uncontested. Given her husband’s behavior and schedule, Anna would be granted sole custody of Christian and given $1,000 per month for child support in addition to $440,000 over the next decade for her own maintenance. What sounded like an amicable arrangement was anything but. Once the separation was put in place, the clash of the exes became frequent and violent. A new lawsuit got under way. One evening, according to Anna, Marlon “brutally beat and struck me.” Marlon’s version made the encounter into a horror movie: “The door to my bedroom burst open and the plaintiff flung herself into the room and into my bed. I tried to restrain her, but she slapped me and bit me three times. I got her out of the house and then she started to come back in. I spanked her and she went out and got in her car and tried to run over me. I went back into the house and locked the door. She threw a log through one of the windows and came into the house through the window. I held her down on the bed and tied her with a sash from my dressing robe. I then called the police and asked them to escort her home.”

  In the midst of these legal and physical skirmishes, Marlon senior began to disparage his son’s behavior in and out of the office. Junior found the censure intolerable and struck back. The showdown destroyed the last remnants of their relationship. “I was cold, correct and logical,” Marlon maintained, “no screaming or yelling—just stone frozen cold.” He told the old man that from the earliest days he had left destruction in his wake. His rigidity and selfishness had turned Dodie, Frannie, and Jocelyn into alcoholics. Maybe Marlon senior had a façade of strength and determination, but the truth was that he was weak and incapable of sympathy or empathy. Afterward, the son acknowledged, “I thought the sky was going to fall on me because of what I had said.”