by C McGivern
“You better leave it to us to make your westerns Duke” was their only comment, and they continued to ignore him. He never understood their attitude, “I just could not believe what I heard… I mean it was the classic western of all time, and these Guys say, “better let Republic make it.”
From then on he and Mary came into contact with each other more. She had noticed him originally because he was good looking, all the girls in the typing pool watched him when he walked in, but he also attracted her attention because he was so noisy, loud and full of fun. She recognized instantly that he covered up his overly sensitive soul under the bravado. She saw the gentle and, sometimes, lost boy, who was struggling to make it in a tough world. Whenever she saw the “wounded puppy” look she worried that he was too soft to survive in Hollywood. After the preview she watched him mooching round the lot looking desperately unhappy, hurt by his bosses’ indifference to his stunning work. She worried about him but never doubted him.
She and the other typists obviously took a keen interest in him, they wouldn’t have been human if they hadn’t, but Duke had also noticed her. He liked the way she smoothed his path, he liked her soft voice and efficient manner. Instinctively, he trusted Mary St John. He loved her sense of humor, and the knack she had of making him laugh uncontrollably, of course that didn’t take much, but she could always manage to make him see the funny side of things at Republic. They were often seen standing around together, he with head bent down toward her and she looking up at him as they both giggled helplessly in a shared moment of joy. Sometimes he thought she was the only one who showed him any kindness at all at the studio.
He was developing a plan in his mind. He’d wanted to start his own production company for some time, and since Republic had caused him such hurt he decided the time to break away from the Poverty Row set up was fast approaching. He knew he couldn’t drag them into the world of the A-movie, but he was determined to get there himself. If they didn’t want him, had no interest in developing him, he would make his own films. For the time being it remained a dream, but Mary was already an important part of it. She would be the perfect secretary and assistant. He hadn’t known her long perhaps, but he knew he trusted her, and he was fairly sure that when the time came to jump, she would be willing to jump with him.
After Stagecoach had been fine-tuned it was put on general release on March 2, 1939, and overnight the western was back in vogue. Ford’s film worked because of the collection of characters and the stunning scenery, and also because of Duke’s stunning power. But his performance won him no great accolades, and no reviewers recognized what he had put into it; he had already made the difficult look easy, too easy for his future good. The critics of the period did not seem comfortable praising a western which was perceived as being firmly part of the B-movie genre, nor could they congratulate John Wayne who was recognized as part of the Poverty Row set. Some reviews even criticized the film.
The American notices had a devastating effect on Duke, he saw the chasm opening up once more, and he read them all with increasing horror. It marked his earliest realization that the Eastern critics couldn’t understand or recognize his acting or his films; it was a conviction that never left him. He felt he had been unfairly criticized, and that he was finally finished. History was repeating itself; he had starred in an A-movie ten years ago, and had slid all the way back to the rubbish generated on Poverty Row immediately after its release. Now he was terrified of the looming failure he could almost smell.
Fortunately the release of Stagecoach coincided with the expiry of his contract with the Leo Morrison Agency. Considering the lack of effort that Morrison had made to get his client work, Duke’s achievements of the period were even more remarkable than they at first appear. All the biggest stars of the day relied on their studios to keep them in the public eye, they were an integral part of the machinery, valuable properties and they could rely on the studios to fight for the best material and the best directors. Meanwhile Duke had Republic, who made not the slightest effort to fight his corner, and he had Morrison, his agent for seven years who had given no support at all. Now he had achieved some success, Duke thought Yates was crazy not to ride on the back of it. Even if he didn’t recognise it, he was getting close to the top of his profession. And yet was still struggling along almost single-handedly. On reflection, he guessed, it had been that struggle that made him tougher than the rest of the pampered stars, and gave him greater independence than any of them knew.
In spite of his concern for the future he signed up with Charles Feldman, an attorney who had become a top Hollywood agent. Feldman became instrumental in Duke’s future success. He no longer felt so alone during negotiations with the big studios. Feldman insisted his clients didn’t sign long-term studio contracts, but rather made one picture deals. He got them two or three times the money to make one film that the studios normally paid for a year’s work. His client list at the time included Marlene Dietrich, Tyrone Power and George Raft. Feldman was one of the first to arrange package deals for the Hollywood stars, buying the rights to books or plays, commissioning screen writers, and then selling the whole deal to the major studios, always with the provision that his director and stars went with it. He won great contracts for everyone who signed with him, and when he went to work for Duke after Stagecoach both were destined to make a lot of money. There would be no more failure.
Duke’s contract with Republic still had four years to run, and Ford had been forced to bargain hard with Yates to get him freed to work for United Artists to make Stagecoach. Now he was in a stronger position to negotiate, and although he agreed to stay with the studio, he insisted on having the freedom to make pictures for other studios as well. Yates had finally recognized Duke’s worth to his company and accepted that it was better holding onto him than letting him get away to a bigger rival. Duke had become, almost unnoticed, a very valuable asset in Hollywood, and Yates wasn’t in any position to resist his demands. Duke had at last acquired real bargaining power and he knew exactly what he was looking for. As he had known it would, Stagecoach changed his life forever, he had finally made his name in the western, won his spurs as a western star, but in the next three years, of the eleven films he made, only four more would be westerns.
CHAPTER THREE
WARRIOR OF THE “JUST” WAR
Tests, Allies & Enemies
“I’m not an easy guy to get along with. I do have a short fuse.”
“Never think anyone is better than you, but never assume you’re superior to anyone else. Try to be decent to everyone, until they give you a reason not to.”
… “Well you see, you have to look at my career as a long fight to get to the top; almost by my bootstraps. I never had a studio behind me, fighting my corner. I don’t call Republic a studio, and Herbert Yates, though a nice guy, didn’t know shit about good or bad pictures. I never had a studio executive who would build me up. Look for good stories for me. Find directors. Develop me. Publicize me. I had one good break, John Ford loved me. Best director in pictures was on my side and he was loyal to me. He put me in a beautiful part in Stagecoach and later gave me other good parts. He showed other producers and studios my potential, and I got other jobs. I’ve been thinking about Coach a lot… ”
Pat had followed him back into the house; it was too cold to remain outside however pretty the boats looked across the harbor. She noticed his eyes had gone a dull, misty blue, clouded over as he turned back to gaze out of the window. As long as she had known him Duke had insisted on looking forward, thankful for each day he was given. He rarely dwelt on what had gone, the disappointment or the joy, he preferred to anticipate happiness to come, and he hardly ever spoke about the old days. Tonight he seemed locked into them. She sat down and watched him closely, if he wanted to talk she was happy to listen. He didn’t look in her direction; his vision was focused on another time, another place. He hardly seemed to notice she was there at all. He was mumbling and she had trouble picking his words
out, but he really wasn’t talking to her, the words were to himself, for himself.
“1939… was the turning point… but it was only the start…”
… After completing Stagecoach he went straight back to work for Republic. He’d hoped to be liberated from the world of poor quality, but that wasn’t the way things turned out. Despite being miraculously transformed into the embodiment of the western hero the studio now insisted that he return to complete his quota of B-movies for them. He had to spend another year fulfilling his contract, producing a string of poor quality films, playing typical leading men roles and he had to wait for another Ford movie, The Long Voyage Home, for his next good picture, “I was under contract to these guys who hadn’t said “hello, or kiss my backside, or what have you” after Stagecoach. In order to do that picture I had to make three or four films for them, one backed right up to the other, six-day pictures. This was just before I made Long Voyage Home. For the whole month before I made it I couldn’t go over to rehearse or have anything to do with the part. Christ, I just had to walk in. I stopped work at twelve one night on a quickie western and the next morning I’m on Ford’s Long Voyage. And they’re right up to where I have to work too. I started the very last minute that they could wait for me. I guess those are the things that other people aren’t interested in, but it was tough. Sounds like I’m making excuses… but I’m not. Had to have a Swedish accent for the part, and I’d not rehearsed at all. There was this one line, “Ja, jag ga hem” or something that Ford gave me. So I said OK Coach. Christ this is my mentor, so I said OK. My own ear told me I said it wrong, but Ford was happy with it. But I got to thinking about a long scene I had to play with a woman later, I just had to sit and say these lines, I begged Coach for some help. So he said, “Well, Jesus, all right if you want to be a goddam actor. You don’t need it.” They got this girl to coach me. Had a beautiful accent… after we worked my accent out together, Jack just left me alone when we got to the difficult stuff… I never had a chance… it was a tough spot to be in.”
The way his career now developed led him to believe that if Ford didn’t take an interest in him he would never be offered any more good parts. However talented he appeared to be in the skilled hands of the master he was certain he was destined to continue making B-movies at Republic with an occasional chance to stretch himself, “Because of the work I was doing at Republic, and then with Ford they started the thing around the business that the only time I was any good was when I was with John Ford… you know for Christ sakes, I’m making a six-day picture one night, then playing a Swedish sailor with an accent… I wanna tell you, that’s quite a switch, from knocking people around. But what the hell… I hero-worshipped Jack. I loved him… ” His career was adversely affected, the big studios wouldn’t risk touching him on his own, “Stagecoach established me as a star, it took another director to establish me as an actor. It couldn’t be Jack who did that, because all the critics were on my back saying Wayne’s no good without Ford. So it had to be someone else who did that, it fell to Howard Hawks and Red River, ten years later. But The Long Voyage Home was still just a beautiful picture.” The film marked the first time that he played outside his normal range of character; his earlier films developed the heroic image, Voyage showed his sensitive side. The familiar Wayne was there, but there was something deeper, fuller… a rounder image was emerging at last. It was to Ford’s credit that he recognized Duke possessed the qualities that would enable him to play Ole Olsen, to his credit that he drew out the innocence, gentleness, and as ever, the soft vulnerability on screen. Both Duke and Ford were proud of the performance.
John Wayne always gave the impression that reviews were unimportant to him. It was never true and he was particularly worried about what the critics would make of The Long Voyage Home. He scanned everything that came out of the East, checking everything written about the movie and was gratified to find it unanimously considered a work of art. The unstinting praise it received embraced everyone connected with it, even him, not one report ridiculed the accent he had worked so hard on; in fact they hardly seemed to notice it. The reviewers loved the film and called it “arty” and complex. One critic said, “It will take all the top honors, except those at the box-office,” and he had been proved right. Hollywood was in the business of creating heroes and there were none in the film, it was also laden with political overtones. It lost money, but hurt no-one, least of all Duke, who was able to move on, more confident as a result of his success in it.
And the next project that arrived finally gave him his chance to escape Ford’s influence. Cecil B. DeMille was casting his new film, Reap the Wild Wind. He had been enthralled by Duke’s performance in The Long Voyage Home and was a big enough personality in the business to take a gamble on him. He rang Duke with an offer. Many years before, De Mille had given him the brush off when, in his quest for work, he had approached all the studios, pleading to be given a chance. He never forgot those who helped him during that time, neither did he forget those who had scorned him. “Just tell DeMille I said a lot of water has run under the bridge since I seen him last.”
“For the first time in his life he could say “Fuck You”” explained ever faithful Mary St John, “He never did it much, but now he felt he could.” He was not impressed by DeMille’s offer, but he didn’t just say “No”… He sent a seventeen page document suggesting changes to the script, telling Mary he guessed that would “wash the idea up” once and for all. “Well, I was sure surprised when he phoned me. He was damn polite and flattering and said he wanted to see me. He said he needed me. Well, I have to admit it kind of won me over. But I was still against working for him. When I went over to see him he came out from behind his desk to meet me half way. He had an office, well it was big, seemed like you had to walk and walk from the door to his desk.”
DeMille told Wayne, “I read your letter sir. It had much worth in it. But if we are to work together you must trust me.” Duke replied softly that although he respected him, he had no desire to work for him.
“Under no circumstances?”
“Well I might consider it. But I’d have to be protected. I know Paramount will protect Ray Milland, and I don’t want to wind up with a supporting role.”
DeMille said as he put out his hand, “I give you my word of honor that I will do you justice.” Duke always trusted a man who gave his word of honor; it was how he liked to work himself. He was softened up by the offered hand and the sincere words. He was willing to take a chance and yet found himself unable to resist a final swipe, “I’ve heard you bawl people out. I don’t want to get a bawling out from you.”
DeMille replied seriously, “John, I never bawl anybody out who does not deserve to be bawled out. I am fair. If you want the job, you got it.”
He took it, and remained forever grateful.
Duke had no trouble with De Mille, he got no bawling out and came to remember the film as one of the most pleasant experiences in his career. The director treated him with respect and it was an unusual experience for him, “Because he put me in his picture I never again had trouble holding up my head in Hollywood, even though Republic were still trying to mess me up with their rotten pictures. Republic just couldn’t make good pictures, except once in a while by sheer accident.”
After Reap the Wild Wind all the studios wanted him and he was finally able to settle down into a rhythm of work that matched his energy, drive and emotional needs. Offers rolled in, he was in demand, able to name his price. He no longer had to search for the next project; they were stacking up awaiting his decision.
In private he also began to move on. He rarely slept at home anymore, preferring to stay at clubs or the homes of friends or, better still, away on location. He had learned to build protective walls out there to hide his vulnerability; he allowed nothing to touch him behind the façade. All the time he was working, acting out the roles he knew so well, he was safe and the world he increasingly came to inhabit, deliberately constructed, becam
e a comfortable one. It wasn’t that he hid there, but he chose to wrap his soft human soul in the tough public image he invented and perfected as his career finally took off. As soon as one picture finished he was busy preparing for the next and from 1939 onwards he became increasingly reluctant to leave the security of a film set for the real world.
Other changes had taken place. Having finally given up on Josie, he was suddenly released from his need of her and for the first time he began enjoying the attention he received from his leading ladies. He was, of course, still married, but he rarely saw his wife now, and although he felt himself to be basically honorable he no longer felt tied to her as he had in the past. He was flattered, though amazed, that so many women wanted him. The female leads in most of his films tended to be strong characters, happy to take the romantic lead, both on and off screen after the cameras stopped rolling, which was fortunate as he remained the tongue-tied, blushing man at thirty three that he had been as an adolescent in Glendale. He never had the inclination, nature, or personality to be a good womanizer. He had little experience, remained naïve, made plenty of basic errors of judgement, but he did experience some free and easy times at last. Few rumors attached themselves to his new-found lifestyle and that was not typical Hollywood fair, but just because he didn’t hit the headlines as so many of the other leading stars of the day did, it no longer meant he was resisting the delights on offer.