by C McGivern
Staff at the lampoon later sent him their Brass Balls award, in recognition of his “outstanding machismo and a penchant for punching people in the mouth.” It was late when he rang to tell Pat he’d had the time of his life. He felt exhilarated by his contact with the students he called, “Such refreshing young men.”
From the success at Harvard he flew straight onto London, which was also in the grip of a bitter, icy winter, to appear on The Parkinson Show. He soon felt less than thrilled and excited. In fact he felt very uncomfortable after developing a terrible hacking cough and high temperature. Michael Parkinson, the talk-show host, felt the full force of his irritability when his opening words of welcome seemed to annoy Duke. He was having some difficulty catching his breath and he coughed throughout the interview. He had walked onto the set in dinner jacket and was immaculate, pristine, and he looked bemused when Parky asked him whether he wanted to sit on a chair or a saddle. His opening question was the old chestnut, “Did you acquire the walk and the talk?”
“Well, I don’t know about any walk or talk.” His back was up immediately.
“What’s kept you at the top so long?”
“Luck.”
“You don’t resent the charge that in the majority of your films you play yourself?”
“Well, I want to play myself… if myself is what I’ve been playing. People like me because there’s no nuance in what I do, I love lustily, hate heartily, I drive straight ahead. I usually fight something bigger than a petty argument.”
“How many of your films do you care to forget?”
“Let’s see… I’ve made about two hundred… oh, I guess about a hundred and seventy.” It was the first time he relaxed, “You know I try every time, but there are a lot of things that go into making a picture worthwhile.” A clip from a film made in 1934 was shown, “That makes it rough doesn’t it? I’d like to look like I did then. I was kinda pretty. I got over that in a hurry though.”
He was asked the usual follow-up, “What changed things for you?”
“John Ford. We developed a pretty wonderful friendship. He had a great deal to do with my thinking and I met a lot of people through him.” All the time he talked Duke played with a ring, he was tense and anticipated the hostility brewing underneath. Before the interview was inevitably steered toward politics he was asked about some of his more spectacular accidents, “Yeah, I’ve had a few.”
“You’ve got this reputation for being the rough, tough fella, are you really?”
A sad smile played round his mouth, “No… I’m a very sensitive man.”
Parkinson wasn’t getting far, “Has anyone ever taken a swing at you in a bar?”
“Yes… and they’ve hit me… They cried when they got back up though.”
A few more questions about violence in modern pictures and about The Quiet Man and then the sting he had been anticipating all evening. Parkinson plunged into the attack, asking about Watergate and Nixon, and Duke, feeling ill, unable to breathe, gasped as he tried to inhale sufficient oxygen, put a hand to his throat. The last thing he wanted to talk about then was his friend Nixon who was in such deep trouble.
He explained briefly that he didn’t know what was happening, that Nixon had not at the time been charged with anything and had not been impeached, “I’d rather not discuss it.” Nothing Parkinson attempted drew any further response from him. Anger was bubbling inside and he turned away from his host. His eyes wandered round the audience as he wriggled in a chair too small for his vast frame. He fiddled with his hair, his hands and avoided facing Parkinson until he was asked, “Are you bored?”
With a deadly snake-stare and exaggerated drawl he turned at last to meet his attacker face to face, “No.”
But he did want to get away and he was struggling almost as badly as the interviewer. They argued about High Noon and the days of blacklisting, but Duke’d had enough, “You had to understand what was going on in Hollywood at the time… It was a long time ago.” Carl Forman, writer of High Noon, who had escaped to England to avoid the blacklist, had put Parkinson up to the line of questioning, “Ask the old bastard about the blacklist.” Duke was too tired to respond and he let it pass without defense. A few words about his Oscar and his image as he aged, “Well, you can’t stay young forever. I wish you could. I have tried to make my parts mature with my own physical condition. Growing old doesn’t worry me.” Sad eyes wandered away, focusing on nothing in particular.
“You’ve got this amazing constitution, what keeps you in good nick?”
If only Parkinson had known! The question drew a laugh from Duke, “Good whiskey and cigars and cigarettes I guess.”
“And what about women? You’ve been married three times now, what are the problems keeping a Hollywood marriage together?”
Did Parkinson know his long marriage to Pilar was all but over? That he was already developing a deep friendship with another woman? He hung his head, sat still and silent for an awkward moment, the characteristic pause, “Well, it takes a very understanding wife… and… er… (Duke folded his arms tightly across his chest as if to protect himself, and sat for a painfully long drawn out spell before continuing slowly)… it’s hard… very hard… There are so many things you’re required to give your time to, that unless they’ve been brought up in the business they don’t understand…” Unshed tears welled up in the “very sensitive man’s” eyes and he turned away in panic. Perhaps at last Parkinson began to sense something was wrong and he turned the interview in a different direction. However it was not one likely to please the Duke, for once again he was asked about cancer.
“And you still smoke?”
“Yes… I’ve been smoking too much. I’ve been smoking cigars again… but I’m gonna quit it I guess… when you get a bad cold”
Parkinson wound the show up, thanking Duke who hung his head again and confessed under his breath, “I just barely made it too… I’ll tell you that!”
From first walking down the steps to meet the enthusiastic audience he knew he shouldn’t have attempted the interview, but he simply couldn’t back out of his responsibilities. He laughed, got angry, frequently wriggled in his undersized chair, was obviously sad, unable to hide his sense of loss although he didn’t mention Pilar specifically. The cough was awesome to hear, and that night marked a watershed in his life. He had gone through the motions of another live interview, had talked about the old days, Ford, films, cancer, violence on the screen, about the Oscars and aging… used the same words he had used in countless other interviews, but Parkinson had stirred him by talking about his constitution. He hadn’t really considered it before, but here, in London, it was about to fail him.
A London writer commented after seeing the program which aired on 1st Feb 1974, “He has fought off lung cancer, ill health, old age, various ex-wives, hostile reporters and Harvard undergraduates. No matter how many double scotches or poison pens his person absorbs he just keeps rolling along. Overweight and stiff in the joints he may be, but once hoisted up there, he still sits tall in the saddle… No matter what, he keeps on coming, bringing a message about ourselves. The public might see him die on screen, but refuses to believe it... the myth is born.”
In the meantime the myth was forced to call a doctor who diagnosed pneumonia. He was put on a course of antibiotics. The cough worsened and he began bringing up blood. To any lung cancer survivor coughing up blood is a terrifying phenomenon and Duke was scared, but despite being advised to rest, he continued the tour to promote his upcoming film and to appear on the Glenn Campbell Special. It was business as usual for Duke and his old saying “I can’t quit” was often heard during his stay. The producer of the Glenn Campbell Show was worried and said, “Every time Duke coughed I could feel it down to my toes.”
His breathing didn’t improve when he returned home and his cough was both painful and hacking. He was worried and went back to hospital to have his own cancer specialist check him over. Although he was given the all-clear he had sudde
nly become allergic to perfume, cosmetics and tobacco. He was warned again that he had to stop smoking and he made a more determined effort. When friends told him he looked rough he laughed but admitted he felt worse than he looked. In fact during his visit to London he had torn a small valve in his heart. It remained undetected for four long years during which time he suffered intense chest pain and on-going breathing difficulties.
He continued to miss Pilar but allowed Pat to slip, almost unnoticed, into his life. She had moved to Newport to be closer to him and although he still refused to let her stay over he now let her move her office equipment into his den. Until her own things arrived she sat perched on pillows and books at his oversized desk, she was never allowed to sit in his chair, “Duke was the most generous man that ever lived, but heaven help anyone who sat in his chair!” Pat had become a fixture but he knew that moving her in openly as more than his secretary would be a mistake on many levels. For one thing he still wanted Pilar back and he wouldn’t endanger his chances with her needlessly, for another his children continued to wander freely through the house, he wouldn’t change that and their welfare remained uppermost in his mind.
He took great pride in his home and even when he was living there alone he enjoyed watching the surprised stares of first-time visitors. They expected it to smell of leather and be full of Western memorabilia, “They probably expect to sit on saddles instead of chairs!” Duke commented dryly after his distasteful brush with Parkinson. In fact everything in it reflected his personal good taste. He had lovingly filled it with artefacts from around the world and it had a warm, lived-in feel. His expensive Chinese screens, ornaments, and huge red lacquered coffee tables always impressed guests.
His den, the largest room in the house, was full of awards and honors. It housed a projection room and a full sized popcorn machine, always fully stocked. Friends were regularly invited round on Friday nights to view the latest film releases. It was the room he loved the best. It told the story of his life. Full of fine wood panelling, it housed a huge fireplace, part of his gun collection, it was also where he exhibited his collection of Hopi kachina dolls. In it, resting on a special plinth made by the skipper of The Wild Goose, was his Oscar, and the “Fifty years of Hard Work” wall.
It was where he read and replied to his mail, much of which still came from cancer sufferers from all over the world. He gave their letters special attention and he never failed to write back, sharing his own experiences and encouraging them not to give up hope. He tried to respond to all his mail, but he needed somebody to keep his office in some kind of order and Pat came in handy for that and he was glad to move her in. Once there she shielded him from the worst of the hate mail, sometimes she didn’t even show the letters to him, but he still responded personally to the ones he did get to see, “You may disagree completely with what I say, but I will defend to the death my right to say it.”
Another trip to London marked the next turning point and the end of an era when he deliberately put a full stop to his efforts to win Pilar back. Pat’s things had been moved into his den and just before leaving home for England to start filming Brannigan, he decided to move her into his life. He had been so ill and lonely in London on his last visit he told her, “I need someone to look after me, so you better make sure your passport is in order, because you’re coming with me. And if you behave yourself, I might even let you persuade me to take you to Paris.”
Strangely, whilst it had been Pilar who left Duke, she was missing him and at the very instant he decided to let go, she made a last ditch attempt to patch things up. She followed him to London and began to make demands. He found it difficult as she pushed him away one minute and dragged him back the next. She had walked out of his life, and now he confessed in a poignant moment that he believed it was time to let go, “I love you very much but I’m old and tired. I don’t feel well. I’m taking a lot of medication and I can’t be a real husband to you anymore.” He had been lonely and hurt for too long and he had now found a woman who was willing to be all the things he needed. Pilar left him in London and went home, realizing she had left it too late, her husband had already moved on.
When they first arrived in London Duke booked Pat into the room next to his but she changed the arrangement, taking another on a different floor of the hotel. She didn’t want to alert the Press to their blossoming relationship. He was angry, he hated underhand dealings, “Goddam Pat, there’s no law against a man having his secretary near him. You’re being crazy. There’s no need for pretense. We’re doing nothing wrong and I’m too goddam old to be playing in a French farce.” He decided to move out of the hotel and he rented a house on Cheyne Walk, right on the banks of the Thames overlooking Battersea Park, for the summer.
Soon after they moved in he took Pat to a local restaurant where she was suddenly taken ill. He got her home and sat up with her until 5 am, then reluctantly left her to go off to start his day’s work, without ever getting to bed himself. Pat said, “I felt all the same awe-inspired affection for him that so many other people did, but that night I fell in love with him. And I knew beyond any doubt that he cared about me.”
And once Pilar went home their way was left clear. Duke’s mood softened and he made a determined effort to give Pat the time of her life. He took some days out of his busy schedule to take her to France, “If I don’t get you to Paris, I’ll never hear the goddamn end of it.” He hadn’t been able to book a hotel before setting off, “If we can’t find anywhere honey we’ll sleep on a park bench.” Pat murmured, “It was so easy to love Duke.”
In London he made many new friends. Reporters fell at his feet and The Sunday Times carried an article by Jilly Cooper, then a young writer who had some difficulty getting to meet the actor. Once she found him she stuck close and the memory of the time lived on in her mind, “My abiding image is of a passing bus, full of people waving and cheering at him, of surging crowds and eager fans, people of all nationalities stretching their hands out, trying to touch their hero.” Her piece mentioned his amazing propensity for downing bourbons and devouring biscuits as he, “All the while talked in a voice that rolls on like a deep, wide, slow-moving river.”
He told her about previous visits to England, “I visited Chartwell, because Winston Churchill is one of my heroes. I was pleased to find his study very intimate, not unlike my own.” When he was called back on set she followed him. As soon as he finished his scene he strolled off to meet the cheering fans, Cooper wrote, “There is indeed something splendid, heroic, indomitable about the man, like a warrior from Homer… Seeing how he hit the crowd I realized how starved of strong men and heroes we are today.” Many years later her memories of the day she met John Wayne still burned brightly, “His sheer size struck me most. A big part of his charm was the obvious gentleness emanating from such a hulk of a man. And he laughed all the time. He found the sycophants who hung on his every whim particularly amusing. He seemed cheerful and completely natural. Charisma poured out of his ears.”
The British co-stars of Brannigan also found him a delight to work with. Del Henney said, “I can’t imagine anyone who had met him not being struck by his presence. He was awesome. When he came onto set he had to duck under the doors and the room grew dark. He took all the light and your breath with it. Perhaps apart from the one famous scene in The Searchers, I don’t think one frame of film has ever captured the impact of what was his real life presence! In my opinion the camera reduced him. Oddly enough, in real life there was no sense of danger about him, in spite of his size. When we first arrived on set we were informed that John Wayne liked to be addressed as Duke, which promoted a few sneers amongst the British actors, myself included, but after I’d met him, if he had wanted to be called God Almighty I wouldn’t have argued. He had such vast experience. He knew what each shot would look like before the cameras started rolling. He also knew which shots would be wasted. After the bar room brawl he had to exit into the street after throwing my character out ahead of him. We di
d the first rehearsal. I go sailing through the door and he follows. He stopped. He looked around and brought his hands up to his face, cupping them like binoculars at the camera and the director, “Hey, Hicox, I didn’t travel three thousand miles to be in a long shot that’s gonna be completely useless. Get the camera up here and let’s shoot something we’re gonna like.” He was right of course, and he had said it with enough humor that he didn’t sound like a bully or disrespectful either. He was also very kind to us actors. I had to play a scene with him where I was supposed to be drunk. I felt nervous and self-conscious. He bent down and whispered to me, “Don’t act drunk. Imagine I’m two people and talk to the guy on my right. And don’t worry about the script. Just say what comes into your head.” He himself had great ease in front of the camera and I just loved his delivery. He was great to work with.”
Whilst Duke enjoyed working with such enthusiastic actors he tired easily and he looked forward to going home. He was also relieved that he no longer had to hide how he felt about Pat. He began spending more time with her and let her know she was more than just a convenience to him, “I’m lucky I found you.” He no longer bothered what other people thought and when he visited friends he often took her along with him. She was easy to get on with and everyone accepted her position in Duke’s life. His children were still sharing their time freely between him and their mother, and they often rushed unannounced into Bayshore Drive on their way home from school, calling out as they tore through, “Hi dad, I love you.” He got on with whatever he was doing, seemed to take no special notice, but loved knowing they were around. They seemed to take Pat’s presence for granted.