by C McGivern
Both Hawks and Duke had hated High Noon in which Gary Cooper’s sheriff was deserted by friends, citizens and his new bride, when he faced a gang of killers alone. Duke said, “I didn’t think a good sheriff would go running round town like a headless chicken, begging for help, and eventually being saved by his Quaker wife. Mr Hawks had prepared a script for Rio Bravo in direct contrast. My role in it called for more character development than action. The story centers around the town’s jail house where I am holding a man I have arrested for murder.” Sheriff John T Chance, every inch the hero, was an older man who believed romance and love had passed him by as he got on with the business of protecting the town’s citizens. He represented moral, legal and emotional restraint, and his frequent violent outbursts could be interpreted as outlets for his bottled up desires. Into his life wanders female gambler, Feathers, and the transformation that takes place in Chance following their meeting was a story line tailor made for Duke. The new persona was readily accepted by film-goers who already knew John Wayne as a man who would never decry his fate, would never ask any one for help and who would certainly shy away from a pushy female, even whilst obviously longing for her comfort.
As he worked on Rio Bravo Duke was in affable mood and Hawks said, “He was a pleasure to work with. He could learn two pages of lines in three or four minutes so that was never an issue; he would just ask “What am I supposed to do in this thing?” All he needed was to be told, “Well you’re supposed to give an impression of this and this.” He didn’t want to know the larger story line, and if anyone tried to explain he would say, “I don’t want to know. I never like Hawks stories, but they always turn out good.”
For Hawks Duke was the perfect actor, “He never squawks about anything. He’s the easiest person I ever worked with. Because he never says anything about it, he just goes ahead and does it.” On the odd occasion when Duke wasn’t happy about something Hawks was always willing to listen and take advice, “All he had to do was shake his head for me to ask what the matter was. I trusted his instincts, and as soon as I saw the worried frown I could be sure things could be improved. I’d sit him down away from the cast and listen to him. We’d go over the script, sometimes tearing it apart. I knew things were resolved when he suddenly beamed all over and said, “That works good.” Hawks continued, “Wayne represents more force, more power, than anybody else on the screen. John Ford and I often discussed how tough it was to make a good western without Wayne. Rio Bravo was a good case. His persona provided the perfect foil for all the rest of the characters, because of his well-developed image as the toughest son of a bitch on the range, he does not have to win every fight, or dominate every scene. His mere presence, even offstage, is enough.”
One of the toughest critics on the range said of the film years after its release, “If I were asked to choose a film that would justify the existence of Hollywood, I think it would be Rio Bravo.” Still, the critics of the day all failed to recognize the importance of the film and once again Wayne received no special plaudits for his performance in it. Duke was at least grateful that after four failures it did well at the box office, staving off his most pressing financial worries, and putting his career back on track.
All should have been well in his world but, as was so often the case, as his star rose his private life disintegrated into chaos. Pilar was suffering from depression and the fire seemed to have shaken her more than she realized at the time. She felt particularly anxious when Duke was away, but was even more determined that she would not leave Aissa again. She knew Duke loved her more than he had ever been able to say, but had no idea why he constantly needed her to be close. He had never openly expressed his feelings for her despite the long distance calls from Japan, and it was not his style to talk about his needs.
He was not prepared to speak the words that, in his own mind, left him appearing unmanly and weak. How could the toughest son of a bitch on the range possibly confess that he didn’t like being alone, that he needed someone with him? Instead of explaining, he simply demanded Pilar’s company whenever he went on location. She had no idea why he had to make so many movies, no concept of why he had to work so hard, she didn’t understand the boredom that engulfed him, or the irritability that filled him when he wasn’t working. His failure to put any of it into words led to their downfall. As her depression deepened, she found it increasingly difficult to sleep. She became short tempered and irritable and went back to the doctor who had first prescribed sleeping pills to ask for more. Like so many Hollywood wives she began taking them whenever she felt stressed.
If she had no understanding of what drove him, he had no idea what was wrong with her. He couldn’t understand unhappiness in people who had good lives. Admittedly he had often made a mess of his own but still he relished everything in it, the good and the bad. When things were going well he accepted and enjoyed the rewards, never questioning his good fortune, and when times were tough, he put his head down and charged headlong into the mire, doing the best he could with everything at his disposal.
Life was for living, and he did it, as he did everything else, with full force. He couldn’t cope with Pilar’s misery. How could a woman with such a loyal, hard-working husband, a beautiful baby, a lovely home, and plenty of money be unhappy? Just as she could make no sense of what drove him, so he failed to recognize her increasing urge to find an identity of her own. Perhaps part of the problem was that he was so much older than her, he always called her, “My girl.” But it was also because he was John Wayne, and too used to people jumping to do what he told them. Pilar was growing up, she no longer wanted to be his girl, she wanted to discover herself and his long-established lifestyle simply didn’t permit it. Inevitably trouble flared and soon after he got home from Rio Bravo, the heated arguments began. He didn’t know why she was angry with him or what had happened between them, so he set about trying to please her, buying her gifts and doing things around the house that he would have done for no one but her. He was singularly unsuccessful in his attempts to win her over and felt anxious when he managed to do exactly the opposite.
He feared another failed marriage. Although he was wary of her newly acquired assertiveness he adored her all the more for it and dreaded losing her. There was nothing he could do, she seemed to have stopped loving him and in September 1958, when Aissa was just two, he announced a separation, confessing in tears, “The going has been pretty rough for us because of my picture schedule and the fact that I’m all wrapped up in my career. I suppose it will end in divorce.”
He was wrong and within days they were back together again, he with a huge smile on his face, Pilar still worried and frowning because nothing had changed for her. He had made her promises to get her back; she knew he would be unable to keep them. He was already scheduled to start work on The Horse Soldiers in Louisiana that October, with John Ford, and as usual he expected her to go with him.
During a party at their newly restored home Pilar began to feel unwell and suffered a sudden panic attack. She had taken the last of her tablets and fled from the room in a cold sweat. Duke ran after her. He didn’t know what was happening until she pleaded with him to go the local pharmacist, screaming, “You’ve got to get my prescription now.” He was caught completely off guard, but he refused to get her any replacements, then or ever. When she tried to explain they helped her sleep he was furious, “Who the hell gave you this crap?”
He called his own doctor who explained that Pilar was drug dependent and that she would need continual care until her system was clear. Everything fell into place; this was why she had been so distant and had been behaving so strangely. He thought he could put things right. He believed he could look after her better than anyone else and he refused to have her admitted to rehab. He promised that if she went to Louisiana with him he would get her through it, “I’ll be with you every minute, every step of the way, all you need is a little rest. We’ll take a vacation as soon as I’ve finished this one.”
It turn
ed out to be the worst location she had been on. Ford was in his most irritable, nasty mood and the whole cast found him impossibly difficult. Duke was kept busy protecting them all, taking the brunt of the worst temper tantrums himself. Pilar found it especially difficult, not only was she unhappy and craving her pills, but her strong husband who had promised to support her through the withdrawal, was suddenly reduced to a quivering wreck at the hands of his mentor. William Holden, co-star and a close friend of Duke’s, didn’t get on with Ford and after several weeks of watching his friend suffer, he took pity on him. He came up with a scheme to give him a break and told the director that Duke’s teeth seemed off color and that he should see a dentist before they filmed any more. He and producer-writer, Martin Rackin, whisked him off set and they spent a pleasant day drinking. Pilar was less than grateful for the intervention when Ford discovered the scam and she was left dealing with the irate director herself.
When Duke eventually got back it was to find a weepy wife and a furious Ford who screamed abuse at him, pushed him around and for the rest of filming, watched him like a hawk. He carried out close inspections of the Wayne’s room every night, looking for any sign of alcohol. Duke took to hiding his drink in the cameraman’s room and sneaking around, trying to stay out of harm’s way. He had no time to help Pilar who was now in severe trouble and his promise to be with her every step of the way proved empty indeed. In a desperate attempt to attract his attention she slashed her wrists and he was forced to accept that he couldn’t look after her as she deserved. He chartered a private plane to take her back to hospital in Encino. Two year old Aissa remained with him and they grew closer and became even more dependent on each other.
Pilar thought him unmoved, cold, and more concerned about the film than her. Once again he had failed her in her hour of need. He simply didn’t know what to say and so kept his own counsel although he did phone home every hour to check her progress. Duke’s biggest fear was exposed emotion; he suppressed his own feelings and kept them hidden from prying eyes. Now he found it unbearably uncomfortable trying to deal with her overt demonstration of unhappiness. She believed he didn’t care, in truth he cared far too much.
A close friend of Ford’s was killed performing a stunt during filming and the director lost what little interest he had left for The Hose Soldiers. He hit the bottle, drinking alone in his room each night, refusing to invite Duke in, perhaps believing he had enough troubles of his own, but commenting, “My era is drawing to a close. We’re under attack from the permissive society and the studios aren’t making enough of our kind of pictures anymore. It’s a pretty bleak outlook.” Duke said, “He looked as though he didn’t care about anything anymore.” He was haunted by the old man’s face and words, and left location sure the director would never work again. He himself had always found ways to recreate an image to reflect whatever changes society threw up, the offers of work had never dried up for him. It was different for the creator of the star and as Duke rode toward his golden sunset, Ford became bitter and took to his bed.
Duke took his turn nursing his morose friend through the next months and often sat with him through long, lonely nights discussing their problems. Duke understood Ford’s better than he did his own and could easily imagine himself in similar circumstances. Unfortunately his wife’s depression remained a mystery to him. It was a difficult time for them all; Duke was seriously worried about both Ford and Pilar but he also had other pressing concerns of his own.
Despite the success of Rio Bravo he was again struggling financially and his investments outside the industry were in trouble. He had purchased four thousand acres of cotton land in Arizona in 1958 but the operation consistently lost money. He had a meeting with cotton brokers, Anderson-Clayton, who recommended he talk to Louis Johnson, who they considered to be the best cotton farmer in the world and happened to live in Stansfield, right next to Duke’s property. When he met Johnson he took an instant liking to the farmer and asked him if he would manage his land, running both operations together. After agreeing a salary Duke went away, started work on another movie and forgot all about the cotton business. But Johnson was as professional in his business as Duke was and the first joint harvest he raised exceeded everyone’s expectations.
Harvesting such a large crop presented unforeseen problems and he couldn’t reach Duke to let him know that he needed to invest more money fast so he could get the cotton in. No one returned his calls, but he had been charmed by the sincerity of the film star, and instead of letting the crop rot in the field he personally guaranteed a loan for over half a million dollars to finance cotton pickers, trailers and extra fuel. When Duke heard what he’d done he could hardly believe his ears! He had been surrounded by con men or people only interested in what he could give them for as many years as he could remember; he was constantly spun schemes, dreams and promises of huge profits, few ever delivered. Johnson had made no promises, but had certainly delivered. He had bailed him out, and expected nothing in return, and Duke had found a man he could trust absolutely. He asked Johnson to manage his land for another year and in 1961 invited him to form a partnership, combining their acreage into one massive farm. Johnson was worried that Duke wouldn’t be able to take the ups and downs involved and only agreed when he drawled, “What the hell, I’ve stubbed my toe before.”
At exactly the time Duke was developing his own successful investment in Arizona, his relationship with his long-term financial advisor, Bo Roos, was rapidly deteriorating. The difficulties over the harvesting only occurred in the first place because some of Duke’s cheques had bounced. When he learned about it he rounded angrily on Roos who promised to liquidate some of his assets to improve his cash flow. He quickly forgave Roos and again put financial matters to the back of his mind.
They stayed there only briefly. $700,000 of his Panamanian investments were suddenly lost when he was unexpectedly embroiled in the political scandal surrounding his Panamanian friend Tito Arias, husband of Margot Fonteyn. A memo from Duke to the Arias family outlining his investments in the country was unearthed by the Panamanian Government. They believed the politically powerful film star was mixed up in a conspiracy against them and disbelieved his vehement denial of their charges. The FBI jumped at another chance to investigate him, but they, like the Panamanians themselves, finally concluded there was insufficient evidence to implicate him in anything. He survived the incident personally but his investments were doomed and it became impossible for him to trade there again.
Duke fretted about where he was going, about his money and how he could support all the demands being made on him. The Horse Soldiers had barely broken even, and of his previous six films only Rio Bravo had been successful. He might ignore his critics, but failing box-office terrified him and, influenced now by the depressed John Ford, he began to see a yawning chasm opening up in front of him. If what he had achieved in Rio Bravo hadn’t been enough to guarantee his future he was afraid he was now going to have to market himself as something other than an aging action hero. It would require yet another re-invention or he would have to develop other lines of business. In 1959 he sat at the top of the heap, the most famous film star of them all, but after his disastrous run of failure he believed that he’d been forced off the screen. The American public might adore its film stars, it never revered them. They were only ever as good as their last film.
It was not only his, Ford’s and Pilar’s worlds that were undergoing rapid change. The film industry, the United States, and the rest of the world too, were in the throes of transformation. He had already fought off the Communist threat in Hollywood but increasing liberalism was again surfacing in the movie industry. He hated the dramatic increase in sex and violence seen in so many new films; Westerns, like The Wild Bunch contained particularly graphic violence, pain and sadism. Duke began to hate the material coming out and believed it had to affect society in general, and the movie industry in particular. He began his crusade against modern trends.
Unlik
e the emerging new breed of film star he had always aimed to please and give value for money. He wanted his audiences’ trust and affection, and believed his success in winning it was rooted deep in the movies he had chosen to make over the years. Public perception of his screen persona mattered to him, whereas other stars of the period were intent on appearing mysterious, difficult, and rebellious; they didn’t care if the public liked them or not, “People have credited me with being a reactionary for years, but the only thing I’m really a reactionary on is the motion picture business, which was intended to be a medium of illusion. All these young actors and directors are trying to take the illusion out of it. I’ve knocked people on their ass, hit people over the head with chairs for years, but nobody ever said anything about it. Now they’re specializing in it. They tape a piece of liver to you and blow it out so it looks like your guts are coming out. They want a realism that I think is unnecessary. Their attitude is realism against illusion. I don’t say it’s wrong, it’s different than my conception, and all I know is that picture attendance has dropped off. It’s no longer the American habit that it used to be. And it’s obvious to me that it’s because of the type of pictures that are being made. It doesn’t take a soothsayer to figure it out.”
Wayne’s world was changing, political storms of unrest billowed in from the horizon to affect both his position in Hollywood and the American psyche generally. He saw everything he held dear under threat again, and as in the forties, the only way he could cope was to stage a fightback. His war started when he finally took the decision to make The Alamo, a film that he had been obsessively thinking about for over a third of his career. He felt the time had arrived to give Americans the story of courage, sacrifice and devotion by the 184 men who gave their lives for freedom. He wanted to produce and direct a film that would “Shake hell out of people all over the world,” and would be in stark contrast to the images of sex, violence and drugs that had become so fashionable.