by C McGivern
It was often Senora Ceballos who triggered Chata’s jealous rages when they had been drinking. She convinced her daughter that a man like Duke, working with so many beautiful women, could not possibly remain faithful. Once her suspicions were aroused Chata turned into a woman possessed as she attacked her unsuspecting husband. She was furious with her mother for bringing the subject up, but mad at him in case she was right. Living at home was reminiscent of his childhood and his days with Josie, where he was constantly dragged into battles against his will. He became morose, depressed and difficult to handle as a result. He was angry, restless and unhappy, “I turned into a grouchy old bear.” Everyone close to him agreed and did their best to stay out of his way.
Worse followed as Chata’s jealous nature turned every leading lady into a threat. She really didn’t know her husband very well. He still clung to all the old-fashioned values that his parents had taught him, Mid-western virtues, deeply held. He longed for nothing more than the chance to work hard and come home to a peaceful, loving wife. If she had only understood who he really was their marriage might have survived. She saw the handsome film star surrounded by beautiful women, and she knew and understood all about men… she had been bought by such men.
But she didn’t know him at all. And he began doing what he had always done when he could find no peace, he stayed away, longer and more often, following patterns established when he was a child. The longer he stayed away, the greater was Chata’s fury when he got back. After each uncontrolled outburst she cried and begged his forgiveness. He was helpless in the face of her tears and gave in, promising to change his ways, to spend more time at home. They both kept their promises as long as they could before it started over again, and their marriage had a fascinating pattern that neither was able to break. Chata got drunk, they fought, she cried, they made up and then, to celebrate, she started drinking again.
He hired Gail Russell again to work with him in Wake of the Red Witch. In the light of Chata’s suspicious nature and their failing marriage, it was a really foolhardy thing to do, and it triggered many violent outbursts. Chata had made him promises that she couldn’t keep, and he had made promises she believed he broke. Either his work or Miss Russell was getting his best, Chata neither knew nor cared which it was, he wasn’t there for her when she needed him. She began taking lovers and drinking more, sparking terrible times between them. Right from the start everyone knew about their fiery relationship, all his friends warned him to steer clear and no one expected the marriage to last. He never listened to a word against her and couldn’t even consider this marriage failing. He was irresistibly drawn back to her every time they parted, loving her intensely when she rushed headlong into his outstretched arms, loving her wildly as they forgave each other once more. And yet he hated the explosion of anger and violence that inevitably followed. She had been swept up into his way of life. Whatever she had been before he knew her, she had never been exposed to alcohol, as she now was. Her attorney later said, “She became enmeshed in a whiskey-soaked atmosphere.”
Duke might worry about her drink-sodden days and nights but he still left her alone to go off on location, where he concentrated on making films. All through those exciting, passionate but violent days with her, he was busy establishing himself as a leading man, pulling himself up by sheer effort until he was at the very top of his profession. He was successful at last and, despite their heated arguments, he could never see this time as being all bad. He had always been dedicated to his career but he would never again permit anything to distract him from it and Hollywood took everything he had to give for the next thirty years.
Descriptions such as “tall in the saddle,” “man of action,” “American institution,” were increasingly applied to him. He acted the Greek hero of tragic legend, acted in comedies, in action films, in seafaring adventures, westerns, war films, and he continued developing his own technique through them all. His roles came alive; often with a minimum use of words and a personal style he had long been developing and learning from the master, John Ford. He had been defined as the western star but the films he made during the years he was with Chata tended to be erotic, realistic and in them he demonstrated a greater flexibility as an actor. His range and professionalism were given full stretch during this period when he turned out film after film, very few of which were westerns. He worked constantly, with hardly any rest. It was a period of wild, wild times with Chata and of sheer exhaustion.
Film makers, critics and audiences alike, referred constantly to his moral and physical stature, and he was often portrayed as the huge, hard, unyielding figure of authority. But both Duke himself and the characters he played often spoke with irony about his height and toughness. He knew he couldn’t play the bluff, romantic leading man for much longer, and he began working out a different characterization, one which could survive long after he was finished as a romantic lead. There was a more fatherly side to his best performances of the period, he was often a man who taught his wisdom to the next generation, even if that only meant teaching them to avoid the mistakes he had made. He began rounding and filling out the heroic image. He promoted his softness and introduced an almost maternal element to the films in which he had no female lead. He started contrasting his obviously physical hardness with a less obvious, soft vulnerability and a willingness to nurture, he became less the protector, hunter and killer, and more the comforter. It was a strangely unique combination. Possibly, because he pandered to Chata’s insecurities, having surprisingly few sexual encounters in the films made during the years he was with her, he was left free to develop what became his defining role.
Despite the fact that Chata hated him, it was Jimmy Grant who helped Duke to attain the characterization he had been searching for, and it was he who wrote the flexibility and tenderness into the tough, uncompromising facade. These were personality traits very close to Duke’s own, and Grant successfully picked out the essence of the man in his scripts where his toughness was never shown as just a matter of hard masculinity, but rather, of an ability to endure punishment and carry on to do what has to be done. The character devised in Grant’s screenplays could be reinvented over and over again; neither age, nor later, illness, made any difference. The strength of the character was tied not to toughness, size or handsomeness, but simply to an ability to endure pain and survive.
It suited the Wayne persona to perfection. His physical presence might be his biggest asset but Duke was a man who could play the father figure from an early age, who easily assumed the responsibility of teaching children and soldiers under his command, who might be tough, but could also be tender, humorous, sad and miserable, moody and difficult, a lover or a loner, a simple fighter or complex man of deep obsessions. Unfailingly, the persona had to be heroic, a professional who got the job done. He appeared the professional on screen and he emerged as a fine actor in a variety of roles, moving easily from the light-hearted, simple man, to the darker more mature one. Through them all, where Grant wrote the lines, he was understated. Ford had told him, “Less is more,” it was how Grant wrote and the way Duke was. He knew he appeared to best advantage when he had few words to say and he developed his acting skills based on that principle. His critics accused him of being unable to act at all, and he was self-deprecating about his talent, laughing loudly when he said, “Many fine actors get lost in their parts… ” long pause, hard John Wayne star, “you seldom see that happen to me… The man I play can be cruel, tough or tender, but never petty or small. Everyone in my audience wants to identify with that kind of character. He may be bad, but if he’s bad he’s bad. He’s no mean little winner.”
A reporter asked him why his character was so popular, had it anything to do with his acting style? Duke offered a simple answer, “Number one, I like people. I think that shows and I think it has a lot to do with it. And number two, I’ve been very lucky with the people I’ve worked with. Jack Ford, Howard Hawks, Henry Hathaway, and Raoul Walsh, were just great for me. They dev
eloped an aura in their pictures… well… the younger ones just don’t get that anymore… they were just great for me… and it mattered to them, what a man was. That man dealt with basic emotions, he hated, loved, got angry, felt kind. It was what people wanted to do. They come and do it right along with me, or through watching me on screen.” He rarely mentioned his own effort when trying to explain his success, but that didn’t mean he didn’t understand the power of his understated performance.
He created the legend via his own personality, his own instinct, as much as through Grant’s words and the greatest directors of his day. It was created through his personal devotion to a career that destroyed everything else around him, and by the hardest effort. The persona remained immensely popular with audiences. They experienced it instinctively rather than through the superfluous use of words; they knew who he was, could feel his pain, recognize his ability to endure, and they knew they were safe in his hands. Words were unnecessary, less was more. And just as it mattered to him what a man was, so it mattered to the people sitting dreaming in the darkness of the theaters. He mattered to them.
Duke was busy planning his future and all his next moves, devising his persona when he was called once more by John Ford who told him he needed to see him urgently. When Ford called he went running. As the war was still raging at the time he was surprised to hear the director’s voice and asked him when he’d been discharged, Ford told him he hadn’t been but he was making a film for the navy about a squadron of PT boats in the Pacific, a patriotic story of duty and sacrifice. Ford enthused it would not be just another war movie, but one that reflected America’s heroic tradition, one that recorded history as it happened, and was to be made alongside the men living through it. He was offering Duke another chance to do his bit for the war effort and told him, “This won’t be your typical gung-ho Wayne-hero movie. I’m using navy personnel wherever I can. There will be no exaggeration of the story.” Still, the first thing he did was call the gung-ho hero to offer him a part. Whatever story he wanted to tell he recognized it would work best, and do better box-office with Duke in it. He needed a volatile, impulsive boy who was more than ready to do his duty, a character unfazed by the idea of sacrifice, who was ready to die performing a heroic deed. Who could play that boy better than John Wayne? So he made the urgent call and Duke put himself at Ford’s immediate disposal, dropping every other commitment.
When he called at Ford’s office Frank Wead, who had written the screenplay, was already there. He was known to everybody as “Spig.” He had served in the navy during World War One, been a career officer and a pioneer of naval aviation. He had fought for the development of the aircraft carrier in America. He was a real hero. In 1927 he had fallen down the stairs and been left paralyzed. (Later Duke played the part of Spig in the film Wings of Eagles). Wead was a natural story teller who Ford had known for many years. He began writing after his accident in an attempt to keep his mind busy, but by 1930 he had become a successful writer of screenplays and was a well-known Hollywood fixture. Like all Ford’s friends, Spig was a big drinker, heavy gambler, was reckless and wild, and attracted everyone who came near him. When Duke walked into the meeting he was awed to find himself in the presence of a real navy hero.
Robert Montgomery, who was to be the star of the film and was a serving naval officer, was also there. All three men were on leave from their war time duties to make the film They Were Expendable, and were dressed in naval uniform. Duke arrived in casual clothes. He had just finished work on one film and was about to embark on his production career, and he was immediately struck by feelings of inadequacy. As Ford began outlining his plans for the film with great enthusiasm he noticed how subdued his star was. Duke appeared to be sulking, as only he could. The others sat talking and drinking heavily as Wead took notes.
Duke added nothing to the conversation and volunteered none of his usual banter, but he wasn’t sulking, he was suffering the deepest feelings of embarrassment and guilt as he sat amongst naval officers talking about making a film about real war heroes. He was living his recurring nightmare, and had suddenly, and without any warning, come face to face with his own reality. Ford, that cruellest of tormentors, knew exactly what the problem was. But for once he hadn’t intended to hurt, and when Duke excused himself to go to the bathroom he dismissed Wead and Montgomery. When he came back into the room he found himself alone with the director, Ford knew big tough Duke Wayne had been crying and he took pity on him. He pushed him toward a chair saying, “You big dumb bastard, we’ve got a film to make. In three weeks we are on location and you better be there. You can bring the fat Mexican with you if you want, but be there. I’m going to work your ass off on this one Marion, and you’re not going to let me down… and another thing when I ask you to come to a meeting I expect you to talk up, I need to know how you feel about it too.” He continued attacking him in his brusque manner and Duke relaxed as they discussed the film. He was shocked the old man was allowing him to take Chata along, wives were normally forbidden on Ford sets, and instinctively knew things were going to get rough.
Ford was both producer and director on They Were Expendable and Duke studied him at work, as he always had, standing at his shoulder, watching the master, taking note, learning how to do two or three things at once, learning to juggle all the different elements involved in putting a film together. He saw stories in literary terms, he didn’t experience reality through sight but through emotion and he had to learn about picture composition and pictorial values by studying those directors who were gifted. It didn’t matter to him that he wasn’t a natural like his mentor, that it didn’t come easy to him, he believed he could learn enough by watching closely. For him the essential prerequisite to success was hard work and he slugged away, determined and never wavering in his effort.
Determined and never wavering… as he stood at the side of the master of composition, the first seeds of John Wayne’s obsession took root. Whilst he studied Ford producing and directing They Were Expendable, a film about sacrifice and duty, he suddenly had his own blinding vision and his dream of making a film about the battle of the Alamo began. He saw the bigger picture of honor, bravery, heroism, duty and above everything else, sacrifice. And from the mid 1940’s onward he carried the vision with him everywhere he went. He had already been planning his future before Ford called him up for this film, he was over forty and knew he had to get into production. He didn’t want to struggle into old age, gradually disintegrating before the camera, “I have much work to do and a lot of life to live. I intend to be around motion pictures for a while yet and when I begin to creak at the hinges and take on the appearance of a water buffalo, I’ll play character parts. Because I know my trade as well as the next man in Hollywood, I’ll direct and produce. But no matter what, I’ll always be part of the picture industry. It has been my life, and I love it.”
He was in the process of setting up his own production company just so he could keep his place in the world he loved. But now there was more to it than that, he desperately wanted to make his own tribute to brave men. In the meantime there was much to learn. He studied every move Ford made, how he planned everything on paper, how explosions were mapped out, how each scene was shot to fit with the others, how he continually improvised, continually made Wead rewrite scenes, using each situation as it developed organically.
Both Duke and Ford were pleased to be back working with old friend Ward Bond who had a supporting role in the film. Pre-production was a light hearted time with Duke generally at the centre of the fun. Then suddenly the mood changed when Ford became restless, apparently unable to forget his men, away fighting the real battles. As usual Duke became the target of his spleen, but the treatment dished out this time was much harsher than normal as the director at last released the resentment he felt toward him for not going to war. He had never said much about it before, now he let him know how angry he was about his failure.
The other actors watched in horror as Duke was reduc
ed to a quivering pulp as he was bullied without pity, “He shredded my flesh. But he knew what he was doing.” Ford certainly knew where to hit him to get the truest performance out of him, and he gauged his ultra-sensitive spot with precision. He was completely vulnerable to the war issue; Ford knew it, drew a bead and shot directly. He moaned at him all day and long into every night, constantly referring to him as a dumb oaf, and telling him he had no idea how to move like a real sailor. If anything was designed to touch the rawest of nerves that was it. He could never be a real sailor now of course, and there was the nub of the matter.
Ford had finally come out and said it, drawing everyone’s attention to it, reducing hero to coward in one well-chosen sentence. But if there was one ounce of pride in Duke, it was in his ability to move well. He had no confidence about anything else, but he had worked so hard at developing unique movements, and he had already starred in a number of successful war films, as marines, sailors, soldiers, and flyers. He knew that if he could do nothing else, he could move well, at least he looked like a hero. He took the bullying in his stride, refusing to show the slightest resentment or reaction, and even when Ford commented loudly before the assembled cast that Duke couldn’t salute properly, he merely bit his lip and held himself in. Although the director constantly stepped over the line of common decency it was Montgomery, not Duke, who finally reacted. He walked toward Ford, placed his hands on either side of his chair and leaned forward to whisper, “Don’t ever talk to Duke like that again in front of me. You should be ashamed of yourself.” The set came to an abrupt and stunned standstill. Cast and crew held their breath, but the expected explosion never came, instead Ford seemed to calm down for a while. The attacks were resumed later with increased brutality, but only when Montgomery wasn’t around.