by C McGivern
Groups of dietitians had ventured into his home, sat in his living room and planned their campaigns of torture for him. They huddled in groups as he paced to and fro, keeping his distance, until he heard things like, “He’ll be allowed a quarter teaspoon of salt a day for three weeks.”
He had bellowed his despair, “Hell… I put more salt than that on my ice cream.” They all ignored him.
“Will he drink milk?”
“Not unless one of you wants to try holding me down, while another holds my nose and another does his best to force it in my mouth, he won’t gentlemen.” And still he was ignored as he performed before them like a sulky child.
Unexpectedly now he caught another glimpse of his body as he emerged from the shower, he removed the towels slowly, unwrapping the horrific sight and he forced himself to take a long look at what life had made of him, what the ravages of time, and the unhealthiest of habits had done to his once heroic body. He had abused it beyond imagination, always taking his health for granted, and it had not let him down until the “Big C” first hit him. And now he had come to this, and he could hardly believe it. It seemed strange to him for it only seemed like yesterday that he had been so lithe, so strong, so indestructible, and he was still able to see on TV as they regularly screened his films, what a handsome man he had been. It seemed unfair that he kept being shown what he had once been. Time was condensed for him; hadn’t it only been yesterday that he swept Maureen O’Hara up into the strongest of embraces in The Quiet Man, hadn’t it only been yesterday that he’d been in peak condition? And now, where had that body gone? Where had his life gone? Once before he had been forced to survey his own mortality and now it seemed so unfair that he should be forced to go down that road again, and as he lifted his head to the mirror once more he saw clearly the scars from his last run in with the mighty cancer.
But what he also saw, that frightened him so much more than the horrific scarring over his body, was the drastic weight loss. He was no longer the mountain of soft flesh he had been, he was no longer tanned brown and healthy, he was a pale shadow of the man he had been.
He would have been pleased to have been able to lose weight so quickly not so long back, now as his fat fell away he was just scared. No one else seemed to have noticed, thankfully, not even Pat. He’d taken to wearing loose fitting clothes. If anything, outsiders were saying how well he was looking, better than he had for some time. Of course they didn’t see him as he got out of the shower, they couldn’t see the body as it was being eaten away, they didn’t have to look in the same mirror he did, nor feel the same fear he felt.
Now though, he knew he smelled good, fresh, smelled of soap and toothpaste. His skin tingled and was still slightly damp as he rubbed on his oil, a ritual that had kept his skin in the finest condition despite the roughest of treatment in the deserts and heat of the film studios. He put on the clean, crisp white shirt that had been hung up for his use, and his dark suit, and the finest soft kid shoes. The hairpiece was smoothed down, and he felt a little better as he tilted his head back again to look into that harsh mirror that he had come to hate because of the story it told him, and he felt immediately relieved. He suddenly looked like the John Wayne of the big screen, not the weak old man he knew himself to be. The physical transformation complete, all he had to do was play at being John Wayne once more, a role he understood so well. He stood up, watched himself intently, just as he had done at his earliest films, looked for flaws and areas he could improve on, but tonight he was happy with what he saw once he had covered up the skin and bone. He looked closely and what he saw there was immaculate, tall and proud. John Wayne flashed a grin back at him …
… Back in the 1940’s the power of the affair with Marlene shook him to his foundations, it had also helped him to forget there was a growing and all-pervading sense of conflict in the world at large. She took his mind off everything but the tiny space they shared. But at the same time, John Ford was busy doing everything he could to force him into realizing what was going on in the world outside Hollywood.
In 1939 Ford, Wayne and the rest of the gang went sailing on The Araner. Ford kept talking about the war in Europe, already sure that trouble was coming and that America would soon be pulled into the fight. He was especially concerned about the threat from Japan. Ford was a lieutenant commander in the naval reserves, and as they fished the Mexican waters he insisted on keeping watch for any unusual activity along the coast.
On one trip they came across many Japanese sailors when they went ashore and he was convinced they were on reconnaissance missions. At the time Duke discounted Ford’s observations as fantasy. He agreed with him that America should be prepared to enter the war in support of Britain and the Allies, but saw no risk from a few Japanese tourists to Mexico. He had no interest in military issues although Ford talked to him at length about establishing a naval reserve unit made up entirely of Hollywood professionals. He had just completed Stagecoach, only his second A-film in ten long years of struggle, and he was far more concerned with the state of his career and with Marlene than with world affairs. He had, as he patiently explained to Ford, clawed his way up, and after a back-breaking time spent in the wilderness he had just seen the glimmer of a chance of entering a world he had believed lost to him. In 1939 as Europe trembled to the first sounds of war he had almost reached the summit of his own personal mountain, and in that one vital year he was aware only of a deep need to keep climbing. He was American, remote from happenings in Europe, protected, as were most Americans by the vast oceans surrounding their boundaries, safe from events that were tearing apart much of the rest of humanity. World politics were inevitably less important to him then than those even of Hollywood.
He had just become contracted to do several films at various studios. He was afraid to risk breaking any of them by joining Ford’s unit, especially when he had no reason to think then that Ford might be right about the threat from Japan. Such action could cost him the ultimate prize, bringing to a halt the career that had only just begun to take off. He was the complete professional, totally dedicated to his craft, wanting only to create beautiful images, obsessed with, and consumed by, his work. Mary St John said he was terrified everything would be snatched away from under him, “He wasn’t very good at hiding his feelings, and you could tell he wasn’t happy. He felt the executives at Republic were exploiting the work he did in Stagecoach, exploited him and cheapened him, and actually he was quite right-he had become a hot property and Republic held the rights to him. What was going on at the studio troubled him then more than what was happening in Japan.” His own situation along with the internal politics of Hollywood and at Republic, were his main concerns until, on December 7 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and America was suddenly dragged into war.
Duke, like all Americans, like the rest of the world, was shocked at the turn of events. He’d had no political involvement or interest up to that point as he busied himself instead with his career. At college he had considered himself a socialist and throughout the thirties his own unformed leanings had tended toward liberalism, he was staunchly anti-fascist. Most of his Hollywood friends, including John Ford were on the left of the political spectrum. But if he had friends that were left wing he also rubbed shoulders with outspoken conservatives and Ward Bond was as far to the right as Ford was to the left. Duke had rarely become involved in the heated debates that often raged between them. He might venture an opinion if anyone bothered to ask him, but he never willingly volunteered his position. That wasn’t unusual, for of that group of friends he was always the one who sat on the side-lines, refusing to get drawn in, even when they were only discussing the price of a packet of cigarettes. Given the white-hot political atmosphere flaming through Hollywood, he surprisingly and steadfastly remained outside the in-fighting. He was a fairly simple, hard-working man, politics at that time were little more than a minor abstraction to him, almost an irritation. The public rarely heard tales of John Wayne’s affairs of the h
eart, because he kept his own counsel, the same was true at that time about his political views. He kept his mouth shut, believing his politics were his own business.
Still, by the end of the decade, after listening carefully to what everyone had to say, he began to drift away from the left and toward the right. He remained reticent and was careful to avoid becoming involved in the issues that were beginning to tear America apart. The only organization he took any real interest in was the Screen Actors Guild and it was here that his mid-west political instincts began to evolve into his own philosophy. Of course he cast his lot with the actor’s union, which was made up of people who had so often originated from working class backgrounds; few of them held any recognized political ideology, Duke was no different to the rest. As a group they wielded great power and had long resented The Screen Writers Guild, which was, they believed, made up of a group of smug and arrogant writers who were considerably influenced by the Communist Party and held enormous power over their own careers. From the deep resentments that existed between the two groups a split developed which eventually cut Hollywood into two factions. Everyone, including an unwilling Duke, would necessarily become involved. At the time he was driven by his need to satisfy the movie-going public, he had little time to give to emerging political thoughts, no time to worry about the state of the country, nor the world at large, despite the efforts of mentor, John Ford, to awaken the sleeping dragon.
The world was at war. There was deep political unrest in Hollywood, and throughout America. Many of Hollywood’s leading men were already serving their country, but Duke was concerned with life immediately around him. Stories about his political inactivity, and his not going to war like so many others, surfaced later to his discredit, but at the time were not remarked on. Because of his age and the fact he had four children he was exempt from the call-up. Americans who didn’t go to war were hardly a rare breed.
He was working hard, happy that the public continued paying to see his films, yet despairing of the films that Republic were using him in. He was hit hard by the reviewer’s attitude but admitted, “I hated the films I was forced to make, how could I expect the critics to like them?” He had decided he had to get away from Republic. Whilst he continued to work slavishly for the studio, he gave nothing extra to his performances for them. They made no demand on his talent, no one had any expectation of him, no vision of the lengths to which he could stretch himself when called upon, had no idea of the quality lying just beneath the surface. They could have found gold; instead they saw nothing special in him, only recognizing that his films always earned them a good return on investment. That was all that mattered to them; they had no desire to spend money on a better vehicle for him.
Hollywood had started making its first war films, not just as entertainment, but as propaganda, and there was no stronger propaganda machine in the world. All the major studios were putting out films warning the American public about the dangers of Fascism. In the aftermath of Pearl Harbor the Hollywood moguls were able to point out to those who questioned such films, that they were right to prepare America for the crisis they anticipated. Most of them were Jewish, and of European origin themselves, and were more aware than most, of the horrors unfolding across the Atlantic. They became more willing to spend money producing the films they wanted the world to see.
What no one foresaw was that the crisis they were busy highlighting would also make John Wayne into the greatest star Hollywood ever produced. Even he didn’t anticipate that his moment was finally about to arrive. At the outbreak of war he accepted he was still a long way behind the likes of Clark Gable, Robert Taylor, Cary Grant, and countless other leading men on the Hollywood treadmill. The lifespan of a leading man was limited, he believed his time would run out before he ever got where he was going. Already over thirty, he was still not at the top of his profession, and although he was full of ambition he wasn’t sure he had enough time left to make it to the very top.
Now a war had come along to interrupt his dreams, to erode more of his precious time away, to snatch away the fruits of his effort. As fast as his moment approached he felt it being eaten away from under him. Like the rest of humanity, he had no idea what the war would bring, he had no way of knowing that it would coincide with his career finally taking off, with him finally becoming established as the biggest star the world had ever seen. He became a megastar because of the war, but it also changed him as a man forever, giving him some of the worst moments of his life, and just as it destroyed millions of ordinary people’s hopes and dreams throughout the world, so he could not be left unchanged or unmarked by it either.
His personal life became even more of a disaster than it had been before as he and Josie moved relentlessly toward the final split. Duke’s friends had always seen the cold and frigid Josephine as a strange choice for the lusty Wayne. They were glad for him when Marlene entered his life. The home that he and Josie kept seemed like a fortress to them, yet they had not known her at the start of the adventure. They didn’t realize he had chosen much of the decor, antiques and art that hung in the fortress himself. They were also unaware that when he first met her, all he thought about was finding any career that would enable him to marry her. They had no idea of the depth of his love for her in the beginning, only meeting him after he had stumbled into the career that tore them apart, changing him, making him obsessive about success, and making any kind of stable marriage impossible.
He was rarely home as he jumped from one film to the next, always on locations unsuitable for his socialite wife, especially after the birth of their children. When he did return it was to comparisons between his wife and his lover, who were as opposite to each other as it was possible to be. But he also suffered the most enormous guilt and was fully aware how badly he hurt Josie. He paid a heavy price for joy; he was unable to forgive himself and felt unforgiven also by the children he continued to love.
“I’ve tried to make it up to them,” were words often heard on his lips following the most minor disagreement, which he always saw as signs of their unwillingness to excuse him. The interpretation rose from self-guilt. He hadn’t set out to hurt any of them but he had been as deeply scarred by the coldness of Josie toward him as he had been by his Mother’s indifference.
From his earliest childhood memory he had been emotionally extreme, obsessive about work, love, or anything else that came along and took hold of him. But once he became bored with the obsession he could lay it aside and move remorselessly on, apparently unencumbered. He didn’t pass from adoration to indifference either quickly or easily, but once he tired of something it was final. He hadn’t been home for some time, partly because he couldn’t bear his children to witness the coldness that now existed between him and their mother. He stayed away but felt sick whenever he thought about what he was doing to them. He could never decide whether what he had suffered at his parents’ hands was any worse than what he did to his own children in an effort to protect them. Pilar, his third wife, said, “He was too good a man to have failed in marriage and too subject to human frailties to have made it work.”
Duke wasted many hours pondering the mess that was his life until he began looking to the future once more, concentrating on the only thing that really mattered to him, making films. He began looking forward again at exactly the time others were putting their futures on hold to go to fight a war. Many of his best friends had joined up and by 1942 twelve per cent of the men and women of the film industry had entered the American armed forces. Duke remained safely in Hollywood making films about the war, and instead of leaving the mess far behind, he waded deeper and deeper into a mire of his own making, no longer in the professional wilderness, but in a chaotic personal life where he carried the guilt that seemed attached to every move he made.
Men of his age, with children to support, were exempt from conscription and not required or expected to enlist. Instead they were encouraged to do something useful at home. What could he have done more useful for his co
untry than turn out propaganda films and face up to the fact that he didn’t go to fight alongside his closest friends? Nothing altered the fact that he stayed home and he had the greatest difficulty in justifying his non-involvement, even to himself. He remained tight-lipped about his embarrassment and never made any attempt to defend himself or his actions even though he was later heavily criticized for remaining in Hollywood. He had tried to enlist in the navy as soon as war was declared, writing to mentor Admiral Ford, “Have you any suggestions on how I should get in? Can I get assigned to your outfit, and if I could, would you want me?” There is no reply on record from Ford.
He wrote to the navy on at least three separate occasions after the outbreak of war but was rejected each time. They didn’t want him and he considered himself a failure, he was as bitterly disappointed as when he wasn’t accepted into Annapolis.
Executives at Republic knew it was not through any choice of his own that he stayed at the studio. Many were aware of his continued efforts to get the navy to accept him as he desperately attempted to get a posting. He had a fairly fragile ego that was easily bruised and the navy’s continued rejection of his efforts dented it badly. He chose to hide that rejection from the public, fearing it would damage the image he had been carefully building. He had always played the hero. It was what he believed he should be in reality. The navy never gave him his chance in the real world.