“Okay. I’ll look at it again.”
“Have you thought about who might direct your play?”
“No. I really haven’t.”
“Ben, go home. Think about the things I’ve just said. See if you can find a way to make it more impartial. Your view and the Army view. It’s the only way it’ll work. Also, write down the names of actors you see in the roles. Meantime, tell me where I can reach Harry Sadler.”
“Barry Nadler.”
“You sure he’s a recognized literary agent?”
“I’d recognize him.”
Kaplan pretended to boot me in the ass and I left the office and the elevator and NBC feeling as if I owned it all, feeling like the hick hero in those old movies who stands on the deck of the Staten Island ferry and shakes his fist at the New York skyline while saying, “I’ll beat you yet, New York!”
I went back to the apartment and looked for Ginnie’s itinerary. I wanted to call her but couldn’t find the damned thing. I didn’t know, offhand, what hotel she was at or where she was playing. I could only hope that she’d call.
No dinner. Just three apples and a jug of chianti. And I went to work on the script. It was easy to make it “less partisan.” All I had to do was remember some of the things that McArdle had laid on me. Then, a couple speeches changed around so that they’d be less pointed, one scene eliminated because the author’s point of view was too on the nose, and I had it in line. Then I went to work on the casting and here’s what I came up with after my last swig of chianti:
BEN ...................... Montgomery Clift
TONY ................... Charlton Heston
JOHNNY ............... James Cagney
HOLDOFFER ........ Jack Palance
Others in the cast were: Audie Murphy, Tony Curtis, Jeff Chandler, Billy De Wolfe, the Marx Brothers, and the Chianti Brothers. For directors I had: Joseph Mankiewicz, Frank Capra, Cecil B. DeMille, Billy Wilder, Buz Berkeley, Elia Kazan and Emilio Chianti.
I threw it all away and laughed and laughed and then went back to work on the script, tightening it, polishing it, shining it up. I’d let NBC worry about casting as I had obviously gone way over budget in my hallucinatory ideas, though, I must say, the idea of Montgomery Clift playing me did seem perfect casting.
Ginnie—bless her—called at around eleven thirty. She had arrived in Pittsburgh and sounded a little remote, as if something might be wrong. I let it go because I was in no shape to make any such judgment. She said that everything was going well, that she had called my folks and was going to drop by to say hello, and then the conversation switched over to how things were going with me. I told her. And she got so excited that I could actually hear her jumping up and down on her end of the line. We sent kisses and love and, before I remembered to get her itinerary again, we’d hung up. Still, I slept very well that night, “I’ll beat you yet, New York” playing over and over in my head, a song sung by John Garfield to Ann Sheridan, as Henry Armetta played the concertina on the moonlit upper deck-a-reena.
Next morning I made a triumphal entrance into the office, calling a staff meeting in Buddy’s office and telling them all. They couldn’t have been happier for me—even Arnie, who had been trying to sell a script for as long as I’d known him. He asked if we could have lunch during which I might give him a couple of pointers. I said it would be fine.
Barry Nadler phoned.
“Ben, what the hell is this with NBC?”
“It’s crazy, that’s what it is.”
“You sold that script?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. Anyway, they still want some changes.”
“What do you need with me?”
“I don’t know. You’re an agent, aren’t you?”
“What do I know from scripts?”
“What do you have to know? Just see that it’s all legal.”
“I’m trying. They sent it over. If you were a juggler or a comic, I could help you. But this? Re-writes? Polishes? Writers Guild? The Writers have a Guild? Is that like a Cousins’ Club?”
“Barry, just do the best you can.”
“Listen—congratulations. And what does that stupid Helen McIninny know from good writing anyway? Good-bye.”
Two days later, Jerry Kaplan called. Said there was a small problem and that, if I wanted to make the sale, I’d better get over to Brokaw’s office post fucking haste. Buddy gave me permission to go so I canceled my lunch date with Arnie and cabbed to NBC pronto.
The following people were in Frank Brokaw’s office when I got there: Frank Brokaw, Jerry Kaplan, Harvey Epstein, and Jason Kimbrough, the latter two being introduced to me upon my breathless arrival.
Harvey Epstein was a small, almost minuscule man in his late thirties. He had no shoulders that I could see and wore a pullover sweater as if a circus tent had collapsed on him. He also wore thicklensed glasses in heavy black frames that continually kept sliding off his nose. He had hair like a shrunken bath mat and a pair of black sneakers that once had been white only don’t bet on it. He was to be my director. He had done a dozen or so well-received shows and was very much in favor. But to me he looked like someone who didn’t get picked for a choose-up stickball game, even though it was most marvelous how he could catch his specs just before they hit the floor.
When I say that Jason Kimbrough was the client, I don’t mean that he handled the Kemper Aluminum account for the agency. I mean he was the client! He was Kemper Aluminum! Of medium height and build, he looked to be no more than fifty though his hair was so white that it was almost blond. He was so damned American in his chiseled handsomeness that, had he been introduced as Jack Armstrong, I would have immediately shat Wheaties. And, if ever I were redrafted into the Army to defend that man’s front lawn, I would have considered it my duty as a citizen to do so.
We began chatting, gradually coming to the subject of my play, nobody really showing either affection or disgust though the teams were lining up more or less as follows:
Jason Kimbrough had serious doubts whether Kemper Aluminum should have anything to do with my play. He meant no disrespect for my writing, which, he was quick to say, was quite superior. That was the thrust of his position: good script but maybe too hot to handle.
Frank Brokaw was kind of on Kimbrough’s side but was hard to pin down, hard to define. He seemed to be willing to go whichever way the wind blew, but unwilling to take an affirmative stand on either side of the issue, and un-anxious to go to the wall for my play because, to use his words from our first meeting, “we don’t need this kind of headache.”
My two allies were Kaplan and Epstein, and all through the discussions I had the feeling that any two men with two such names should be making me a suit and not fighting for my script. I’d much rather they’d have been Solomon and Disraeli, or, more realistically, Kaufman and Hart. But even as Kaplan and Epstein they weren’t bad.
Jerry Kaplan, wearing his ruptured-duck discharge button in his lapel, was lawyeresque, well spoken, logical and clear, pointing out the quality of the writing, the maturity of the audiences, and the need for America to face up to and deal with its own imperfections. He thought that, with proper changes in the script, the play could help Kemper add to its image as one of the nation’s leading corporations and shapers of public opinion. He was pretty fucking eloquent.
Jason Kimbrough remarked that all that was well and good, his only question was would they all not be acting a bit prematurely in jumping into the conflagration so soon? Yes, the Army should be held up to inspection just as any other arm of the government, but was it necessary for Kemper to assume the risks that always came with being first? Kaplan countered by saying that if and when somebody ever ran the mile in under four minutes, no one would ever remember the man to do it second.
Frank Brokaw wondered if Kaplan’s comparison had validity in that men were forever trying to break the four-minute mile, whereas no one had theretofore evidenced any great interest in besmirching the reputation of the US Army. He
seemed to be saying things that reinforced Kimbrough’s stand—my first producer and he was made of pudding.
Kaplan respectfully allowed that his sports analogy might not bear up under all that scrutiny, but he still insisted that new times were upon us and that corporate giants such as Kemper had to assume certain obligations because if they didn’t, who would?
Kimbrough asked Kaplan if he could be more specific, and Kaplan was in the process of doing just that when Harvey Epstein rose from his chair, catching his glasses as if he were W. C. Fields catching his straw skimmer. Then he stuck his arms out like Durante and carried on like Aimee Semple McPherson. “Gentlemen, please! I ask you—what the fuck are you talking about?”
That stopped the discussion, hushing everyone in mid-flight and giving Harvey Epstein the floor. And his marvelous New York accent, half emotion, half profanity, filled the room with evangelistic zeal, almost rattling the photos off the walls. “I mean,” he repeated, “what the fuck are you talking about? No one’s going to the moon and no one’s going to the gallows. There’s a play here, written by a man who, on first appraisal, seems to be passably sane for one so eager to write for television. Mr. Playwright, is this a true story or did you just make it up just to hand out a couple heart attacks?”
“It’s all true,” I said, stopping short of adding “your honor.”
“Good,” said Epstein. “That’s what we thought. And even if we didn’t, that’s how it reads. It reads real. The dialogue bites clean. The characters know who they are. In a one hour drama you have to have all that going for you before you start or you’ll have a cadaver before you’re halfway through. Mr. Kimbrough, I now address myself to you, sir: why are you breaking my balls? This is one helluva play. Dramaturgically it works. You like that word? Okay, so you’re concerned with its politics, to which I say so am I, because, as a veteran of the US Army, and having sustained two very severe cases of the clap with oak leaf clusters, I don’t want the world believing, not for one minute, that ours is the only army in the world that fucks up regularly.”
Kimbrough roared. Brokaw smiled. And Kaplan winked at me, as if to say, “Don’t worry, your suit will be ready this afternoon.”
Harvey Epstein was racing for the paddock, coming down the back stretch with nothing but finish line in front of him. “The object of this drama is to keep the audience from falling asleep. That is the object of all drama. Not to kindle conscience or make political merry or duck pertinent issues—no, that is the job of musical comedy.”
Kimbrough roared again. Brokaw lit up a cigarette in comfy triumph. And Kaplan sat back as though he had four aces, having drawn three.
Epstein jogged over the finish line juggling his glasses like a hot potato. “This play is not perfect. The writer is still at work on it. I want all names changed because I didn’t come this far in life—by subway—to risk being a defendant in a lawsuit. You say you’re concerned, that your concern is for the Kemper Aluminum Company. Well, let me assure you that those of us in The Epstein Bullshit Company are no less concerned. There will always be aluminum. There may not always be an Epstein. In closing, I say to you, Mr. Kimbrough, if you like the way this play ‘reads,’ you will love the way it ‘plays.’ But, if you’re afraid of it and want to water it down, take my word for it, if you water it down, all you’ll have left is ‘Francis the Mule Pisses on his Hoof.’ Sir, add no water. Season it with intelligence, bake for one hour of prime time, and you will have a dish that can be set before a king.”
Kimbrough stood up. “Harvey, most of what you say is such a lot of shit that I marvel at how the air is not polluted within five minutes of your opening your mouth. But, so is most of what I say, so—do your play. All I ask is that you keep my reservations about it in mind and that you act accordingly.” He came over to me and shook my hand. “Young man, thank you for your very fine play. I just wish that you never wrote it.” Then he left, followed by Frank Brokaw.
Jerry Kaplan congratulated Epstein on how well he had tailored the suit, after which Epstein came over to me. “Schmuck, have you checked with your lawyer?”
“About what?”
“About if you can still get the firing squad even though you’re no longer in the Army.”
“Yes. He says I can, and will.”
“Then you’ve got a smart lawyer.” And he started out.
“Hey—don’t you want to see my rewrites?”
“What rewrites? There are no rewrites. I don’t want a thing changed other than the names of the characters. Except ‘Tony.’ Keep that. He’s dead and can’t sue.”
“Yes, but—”
“And stop with the ‘yes, but.’ You sound like Jack Benny.” And he started out again, tripping over his untied sneaker laces and catching his glasses on the fly two feet in front of him. “Christ,” he said, “who the hell waxed this carpet?”
With Harvey Epstein gone and all his insane logic with him, I looked over at Jerry Kaplan, who was lying on the couch, smiling at me. “What do you think, Ben? You have just seen a drama that we play here, oh, maybe three times a month. Your mouth is hanging open. Are you catching flies or is there something you want to say?”
“I don’t understand about the rewrites.”
“Nothing to understand. No rewrites. Happens maybe once a century.” And he sat up straight. “The show will only work as written, from your gut. Any changes and it risks flying apart. And if that were to happen, Kimbrough would have a conniption fit. So no changes.”
“You so sure Epstein is right?”
“Epstein? What does he have to do with it?”
“He’s the one who said ‘no changes.’”
“He’s the one who said it to you. The one who said it to him was Frank Brokaw.”
“But, he was—”
“Sucking around Kimbrough?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Is that the way it looked to you?”
“Yes.”
“Looks can be deceiving. Ben, Frank Brokaw is two things. One, he is a superb actor. And two, he has more raw courage than any producer in the business. He would have fought harder for your play than you would have. The trick was to not let it come to that. Jesus Christ, are you going to faint?”
“I already have.”
“Frank can play Kimbrough like Evelyn plans her magic violin. But, there’s one more thing you should know. Kimbrough knows it and allows it.”
“So it’s all a game.”
“It’s a game for as long as we continue to put on good shows. Once we stop doing that the game is over.”
“And Kimbrough never gets his hands dirty.”
“You got it. He always keeps himself in a position to say that he was against something but that we insisted. And so it becomes our asses and not his—because ours are flesh and blood, and his is aluminum.”
“Do you think he likes the play?”
“He never read it. We sent him a synopsis.”
“How the hell do you guys function?”
“Nobody knows.”
It was midafternoon when I finished up at NBC, or should I say, when NBC finished up with me—and I just didn’t feel like going back to the office. Kaplan had told me to shake myself free for casting and for rehearsals, which would begin quite soon. I said it might be difficult. He said that I could skip casting but that Epstein would insist that I be around for rehearsals. I said I’d have to quit my job or take a leave of absence. He said that I was every inch a writer and that I had better stop straddling the fence, and that, should I jump off onto the writer side, he was pretty sure that NBC would guarantee me at least three or four scripts on the come, for the fall season, and that I could begin writing them over the summer. I felt good about that.
I called Arnie Felsen and told him to drop by my apartment after work and I’d fill him in. He was frothing at the mouth to do just that. When he came up he was so fascinated with the whole story that he prevailed on me to read a script of his that no one on earth had as yet seen
.
I was depressed after Arnie left because I knew instinctively that the guy couldn’t really write. I just didn’t want to be the one to tell him that he was no Henry Denker. I had a drink and then, feeling better, called Ruby Foo’s and had them send up a Chinese dinner that would have made Marco Polo’s eyes slant.
An hour after consuming that dinner I was depressed again. I had all that success going for me, all those vibrations on the wind, and nobody to talk to about it but Arnie Felsen—and I had already talked to him.
I thought of Ginnie. She’d still be in Pittsburgh. Maybe she’d already seen my folks. Maybe I should call my folks. Maybe they’d be glad to hear the news.
I called and they were both at home. They were delighted with the news. Surprised, too, for they had had no idea that I wanted to write. Yes, Ginnie had dropped by—nice girl. Made a nice impression. I told them to watch Theatre 60 on Sunday night because at the end of each show they announced the next week’s show and mine would be coming up soon. My father, who liked to watch Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians, said he’d forgo that pleasure and I thanked him. I told them to allow for the one hour time difference between New York and Pittsburgh and my father, insulted, asked if I thought he was a moron. We all tired of talking and said good-bye and I was really depressed.
I knew to stay away from the booze because I had been doing too much of that since Ginnie left town. I was mad at Ginnie for not being somewhere where I knew I could call her. I knew I could get her number from Barry Nadler but that would be the next day. Besides, I didn’t want to talk to Barry Nadler, I wanted to talk to Ginnie.
I wandered into her room and it drove me crazy. I guess I was a little tipsy because I felt some tears on my cheek and I was not known to be a crier. I touched her clothes again, in her dresser, dungarees and leotards, funny blouses, underthings—silk and maddening. And some better class things with Bloomingdale’s labels, and Sak’s Fifth Avenue. My photo was on her night table. Me, in uniform. It seemed a long time ago, as if that soldier was a stranger because I was a playwright. And how could anyone who looked that stupid be a playwright?
There Should Have Been Castles Page 32