Ignoring my declining physicality, because what was more important than art, I pressed on with my script. It was called “Let There Be Love,” and briefly, since you ask, it was about a young writer who created a girl and then believed that she was real. Each time they quarreled he would rewrite her, even though she protested that they should try to work out their differences and not just throw them away. He was nuts, of course, and in the end they locked him up. But as long as he had his typewriter, she was always with him—one day as a nurse, another day as his lover come a visiting. And within the confines of his room, away from harsh reality, he eventually creates the most perfect love story, one in which the lovers remain eternally young, until he dies at ninety-three. He’s buried in a pauper’s grave but his story is published. A half century later, a young girl reads it—and guess who she is? The whole thing was about love everlasting, spanning time and crossing space, and linking lovers together even though he’s dead behind the nut house and she’s never alive in the first place.
Harriet came around, pathetically, but I could not service her. She was angry even though I tried to explain that I either must work or die. I was sorry about that, truly, for I was beginning to see her as a creature in need whom I was not helping.
A month and it was finished. I had it. One hundred nine pages of solid scenario. I felt like celebrating. I had earned it. My beard had grown from my nose to my collarbone, and I had to scissor most of it off before my razor would risk going in there. I hadn’t eaten much or well throughout my scripting and was surprised to learn from my scale that I had put on another eight pounds, again around the middle. Beer will do that. An occasional two dozens cans of beer a day will do that.
I went over my script again and again, reading all the dialogue aloud. It flowed. It held. I called Harriet because I wanted to read it to her, but she told me to stuff it. I took that as an indication that my script was no good and I became depressed for three full days. It took a night filled with music supplied by the London Symphony to rekindle my faith in my script. And at three A.M. that night and morning, I knew that it would not die aborning.
The next morning I called Jack Rush at the Morris office. He was very pleasant and asked how I was doing. I told him I’d finished an original screenplay—would he like to see it? He told me that he was no longer my agent and couldn’t get involved. I pointed out that the script was good and salable and low budget. He said he had no doubts that the script was good, but that there were a lot of good scripts around and that all of them had been written by much nicer people than myself. Therefore—why would any studio want to get mixed up with me? I told him that I realized my mistakes, that I was a changed man, and that my script could speak for itself. He said he hoped my script could speak for itself since William Morris had no intention of speaking for it—and he said he was at a meeting, and he hung up.
I called Vernon Stacey in New York and gave him essentially the same pitch. He gave me essentially the same reaction, adding that they had all bent over backward to help me and that I had hung myself with my own petulance and immaturity. He said that the only way I’d get a studio to read my script was to slap a pseudonym on it because the name “Ben Webber” was all used up. He said he couldn’t talk with me any longer as he was in a meeting, and he hung up.
I was blacklisted. No communist ties, nothing I’d ever signed, no “Benefit for Bolsheviks” I’d ever appeared at—but I was all the same blacklisted, for conduct unbecoming a writer. I had dared to stand up to them, and exile was my fate. Cut loose in the Hollywood sea with not even an agent to siphon off ten percent of my last bucket of fresh water. Okay, I figured, very well. I would do what Vernon Stacey had smart-assedly suggested. I would send out my script with a pseudonym on it.
I sent one to Warners, one to MGM, and one to Paramount—all of them with the name Jackson Dowe on them (J.D.—Juvenile Delinquent). They all came homing back. Unopened. Each of them more or less attended with the same letter:
Sorry, but for our own protection, we do not read material that is not submitted through a recognized literary agent…
I was back to that bullshit again, back where I had started. And it was infuriating. I was down but, god-damnit, not out. I took an ad in both Variety and The Hollywood Reporter:
I am sorry for the trouble I have caused my friends in the motion picture industry. And I apologize for my behavior. Nonetheless, I have completed an original screenplay and find that, because I am persona non grata, no one will read it.
I think it is worth the reading and well worth the making. Is there anyone out there willing to invest two hours of his time on the odd chance that I may be correct?…
Ben Webber
639-9844
PS.—For my own protection, my script cannot be submitted to a recognized literary agent.
The day my ad ran I camped by my phone as if it were the Hope Diamond. I did not leave the room to pee but that I hauled the phone along with me. It never rang. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t even get a call from the people in charge of Mexican Relief and they usually called five times a week. Being the period of McCarthyism didn’t help. People were afraid—of everything. Especially movie people, because they were really blacklisted. I began to wonder if maybe my little postscript hadn’t been too clever—if I wouldn’t have been better advised to allow an agent—any agent—to see it and then have it submitted to the studios under his auspices. That conclusion became more and more obvious as the day wore on.
But at eleven thirty P.M. I received a phone call that was to change my life dramatically. It was from Sam Gaynor. He had seen my ad.
“Ben, you fucker—that’s the funniest ad ah ever did read. Sure put a lot of people in their place.”
“Think so? Then how come nobody called?”
“How could they? They think you’re nuts, out of your fuckin’ gourd. Runnin’ that ad maybe got you some jollies, boy, but it ain’t ever gonna get you any results. Those idiots read that and they are gonna steer as fah away from you as they can. Man, that was a fuckin’ suicide note! You mean nobody called?”
“Not a soul.”
“Nobody at all?”
“You called. First and only. And that’s a bigger surprise than if nobody called. The way I worked you over in my play—?”
“You kidding? Ah loved it! Gave me notoriety. Laughed so hard ah almost mussed my pants. And callin’ me Ron Garner? Sheet—that was fuckin’ inspired. And as to me talkin’ a lot—ah do talk a lot. It’s better’n listenin’ a lot, ’specially when the mothers out here got nothin’ to say and take all day provin’ it. Mad at you? Hey—ah am not mad at you. Ah think you are one helluva writer. Ah think you’re so good that even if ah was mad at you ah wouldn’t let on because you’d only do it to me again—in your next script. Is that not raht?”
“I’ve got a sneaky feeling there’s not going to be a next script.”
“Naaaaah. You just have to roll with it. They got a different rule book out here, kid. And they stick it to everyone, every chance. Fuckin’ bunch o’ frightened sadie-masochists. Sheet, you know it as well as me, there’s nothin’ of any quality comin’ outa this town. Only trouble is, they don’t know it until after the fuckin’ films are released. Anyway—ah just called to see how you were doin’. Ah mean—ah heard about your little experiences at Warners and MGM because that kind of stuff gets around. Also gets exaggerated.”
“Whatever you heard was no exaggeration.”
“Good. Ah love it even more. Ah don’t know whether you got guts or are just nuts, kid, but if you’re dead, at least you went down fightin’ and that’s more than the other corpses lyin’ around out here can say. Anyway, like ah said, ah just called to commiserate with you, for old times sake. Ah mean, we’ve had our differences but we did kind of come out of the same litter. If you got nothin’ to do, why don’t you drop by mah office and ah’ll buy you a cup o’coffee. Ah’m in the book, just off Beverly Boulevard. Ah’ve got a couple things going at C
olumbia, couple little flicks. But ah’d like to see you and give you the benefit of my expertise, as ah have been fucked about with too, and know what you’re goin’ through. Okay?”
“Sam? Do you think you might find time to read my script?”
“Yeah. Ah suppose so, but not raht away. Ah mean, ah’m not stallin’ you, kid, but don’t bring it over if you want me to read it overnight because ah can’t. Ah mean, ah just fuckin’ can’t. Ah don’t know why you need mah opinion anyway. You know it’s good. You know your problem is not your talent, it’s your fuckin’ big mouth. Bigger than mine even, eh, you mother? Ah mean, ah remember you when, boy, and ah don’t figure that success has exactly turned you into a deaf-mute.”
“Success has come and gone.”
“Then get up and do it again. Listen, kid, ah gotta hang up. Got a girl here, you know? Hey, bring your script around, ah’d be happy to read it. Really would. Just give me a call when you’re comin’ over so’s ah can make sure to be here. Give ’em hell, Ben. If ah don’t get to see you—fuck ’em all.”
Sam Gaynor’s number was in the book, and I called him the very next morning. His secretary said he was at Columbia and didn’t know when he’d be back. I drove around, feeling cowed but less angry. Talking with Sam had somehow brought me down to earth and I realized that I’d been fighting windmills when what I should have been doing was mending fences. And I thought, if a guy with the negative personality of Sam Gaynor could have work in progress, then he either had more pull than the magnetic poles, or he had truly learned—the hard way no doubt—how to keep his poisonous personality in tow.
I could hardly look upon Sam Gaynor as a friend. I had never liked him and probably never would. But somehow, out there in Fantasy Town, things could go topsy-turvy at any minute, resulting in something as astounding as Big Al Epstein becoming my antagonist and loud Sam Gaynor my ally.
The next morning, feeling more insecure because maybe Sam really was ducking me, I called him again, first thing. He was in and expansively told me to come over. He didn’t tell me to bring my script and I didn’t ask him if I should—I just brought it.
His offices were pleasant and unostentatious. In a small four-storey building, Hollywood modern, in which he occupied most of the second floor, there were the compulsory mementoes of Skip Gaynor plastered onto walls and strewn upon tabletops. But beyond those, the place was no more garish than any other offices one might find on the outskirts of Pompeii.
A receptionist who looked as though she had been slept in by the Los Angeles Rams also handled a small switchboard. She announced my arrival. The door opened and Sam came out like a lion at a bishop. He seemed so much bigger than I had remembered him that I actually stepped backwards, the prescribed action when being charged by a wild animal.
“Ben, you fucker! Ah oughta drop you with a hard raht for what you did to me in your fuckin’ play!” Instead, he pumped my hand as if inflating a zeppelin.
“You said you wouldn’t.”
“Yah, yah. Come on in. Oh—this is Althea. She’s our receptionist. And, as you can see, she’s still a virgin. Movin’ right along—in here we have Gloria, my private fuckin’ secretary. Say hello to Ben Webber, Gloria, and then get back to whatever dirty book you’re readin’.”
Gloria and I exchanged hellos. She was reading James Joyce.
“This is mah office,” said Sam, “and next to it is mah partner”—he opened the door to an adjoining office and pointed at the man behind the desk—“Randy Hampton, who, in reality, is a snake and a golf hustler. Randy, say hello to Ben Webber.”
Randy Hampton stood up like a mongoose fixing on a target. He was a thin, shoulderless man of about thirty-five, with a head so outsized as to border on being macrocephalic. “Heard a lot about you, Ben. Don’t believe what he says about me. I’m in charge of the money and, with him around, if I didn’t ride herd we’d be broke in a week.”
Sam bellowed. “Don’t listen to him, Ben. He’s so busy fuckin’ Columbia out of their lunch money, he has no time to watch what ah’m doin’! Come on, come on. You’ve spent enough time with the riffraff.”
Sam and I went back into his office, where he closed the doors and buzzed the intercom. “Gloria, who am ah havin’ lunch with?”
“Charlie Brackett.”
“Shit. Ah can’t break that, can I?”
“Why not? You broke it yesterday.”
“Yah, yah. Ben? Coffee and doughnuts?”
“No, thanks. I’m—”
“Gloria, you sweet-titted thing, get us a dozen doughnuts. Assorted. Four or five containers of coffee. Milk and sugar on the side.” He switched off, sat back in his chair with his hands behind his head, and he smiled at me as he looked me over. “Yep—ah really oughta punch you out. Ron Garner. Sheeeet. Weren’t you afraid ah might one day catch up to you?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Fearless fucker. Listen, kid, as long as you’re not doin’ anything.” He opened a door and riffled through it like a steamshovel. “Ah got a couple scripts here which ah’d appreciate you’re lookin’ at. Ah’d like your opinion of ’em.”
“Okay.”
“Ah mean, they both need strong rewrites and ah’ll pay you if you’re really interested. What do you get for a rewrite?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t have an agent anymore?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah. Ah heard that, too. Well, you’re better off without them blue-suited fuckers. We’ll work somethin’ out. Ten grand. Fifteen. Twenty. Whatever. I don’t give a shit, it’s Columbia’s money. Will you read these?”
“Yes. But will you read mine?”
“Brought it with you, I see.”
“Just in case.”
“Okay. Soon as I can. But it won’t be tonight. Ah can’t get out of this dinner, and ah know it’ll go on forever.”
“Doesn’t have to be tonight. Whenever you can.”
“Fair enough.”
We swapped scripts. “Let There Be Love” for “Hellbent for Leather” and “Dynamite Truckers.” And it was immediately apparent to me where Sam Gaynor’s interests lay. The doughnuts arrived and he dispensed with six of them. I had two. Other people would have the leavings. We had coffee, gabbed about the old days. And he left for his lunch date.
I drove back to my place, went out onto my deck, and read both of his scripts. Each was worse than the other. Take your pick. “Hellbent for Leather” was hopeless, some kind of Western in which there’s a horse race from Tucson to Phoenix, winner taking all, including the marshal’s idiot daughter. “Dynamite Truckers” was about truck-drivers who schlepped dynamite—in this case, over the Hump in Burma, with Japs shooting at them all the way. Both scripts were authored by Sam Gaynor. I wasn’t surprised.
Of the two, believe it or not, I preferred “Hellbent for Leather” because, though derivative, it was not baldfaced plagiarism as “Dynamite Truckers” was. (I had seen it under various titles such as “Over The Hump,” “Roaring Wheels,” “Truckride to Tomorrow”—like that.) I made some notes on it, how the characters could be reshaped and filled out. I wanted a job, plain and simple. Not for the money but for the screen credit. A chance to show the film community that I was not the unbalanced hothead the Morris office was painting me to be. Also, judging from the two scripts I had just read, it was not likely that Sam Gaynor would leap at “Let There Be Love.” All that I had going was what I might be doing for him.
I called him the next day to tell him that I thought I could do a strong rewrite of “Hellbent for Leather.” He was delighted. He told me to come in and speak to Randy and work out some kind of deal and that the Writers Guild could help me in the framing of the actual contract.
And the following morning I sat opposite Randy Hampton as we worked out the bare beginnings of a deal. The man never stopped smiling and never once pondered. There was a touch of the mafioso to him, and I made a mental note to never let him kiss me full on the mouth.
I would get ten grand to start, another five upon the delivery of the rewrite, another five upon delivery of a polish, and another ten, deferred, out of first profits. I was guaranteed twenty grand even if the picture wasn’t made—plus another ten if it was made and paid off. Considering that it was only a rewrite and my first assignment, it was not a bad deal—providing I could hang onto my temper. Randy said that their lawyer would draw up the contract but that, before I signed it, I should have the Writers Guild look it over. Meantime, he didn’t think that I should start doing any work until it had all been straightened out. He didn’t think the contracts would take longer than five days—ten at the most—as it was a pretty standard thing.
I began work anyway, mostly because I had nothing else to do and was fighting to maintain a hold on the strings of my sanity, but also because I knew I could do it. Sam had not yet been able to get to my script which I thought was just as well since all it would do would be to convince him that I had no business rewriting his script. I began to hope that he’d never read it and I regretted ever having given it to him.
There Should Have Been Castles Page 49