"Then make room, Joe," I said.
"Impossible, Sam."
"Look, Joe," I said, thinking as I puffed on my cigar for a moment. "Nobody in the audience has ever been in a sub. Nobody knows what the hell the interior of a sub looks like. Just put the lamps in the shot. They'll think that they're part of the sub's equipment."
That's exactly what he did. You can see the red lights when the camera dollies around the sub's cramped compartment. No one really cared except Joe.
Hell and High Water begins with a nuclear bomb going off, then the credits roll. The idea of displaying the credits next to the mushroom cloud was my way of saying that this bomb may seem like an ally today but could become your worst enemy tomorrow. The bomb footage was real, acquired from military archives. The government made us erase certain colors from the sequence "that could reveal nuclear secrets." We acquiesced, but I didn't understand what the hell they were talking about.
The movie did good box office at home and abroad. They had big premieres in Los Angeles, New York, and London. George Jessel emceed the one in New York, and Noel Coward did the one in London. Believe it or not, the picture was a big hit in Germany. Here was a military adventure without a word about Nazis. For a country trying to come to grips with the aftermath of a world war, Hell and High Water was like a breath of fresh air.
Lefty European critics wrote that the picture was anticommunist propaganda. For Chrissakes, it was an adventure yarn. Besides, I don't make propaganda films. When I write a book or a script or make a movie, I'm only interested in one thing: a good story. If the story has conflict, there's action. If there's action, there's emotion. That's what I call a movie. See, 95 percent of all movies are made because people have to earn a living. That's okay. Only 5 percent are made because one passionate man or woman had an idea and nothing could stop him or her from getting it up on the screen. Sure, I've done a few bread-and-butter movies. But far and away, my pictures are "must makes." I'd come up with a story and I needed to tell it.
Zanuck and his studio executives were happy with my quirky little adventure picture. Hell and High Water made plenty of dough for Fox. As soon as I'd finished it, I packed my bags, said good-bye, and headed for London to write and direct a film with Trevor Howard at the invitation of the Woolf brothers, the producers behind John Huston's The African Queen (1951). How could I possibly know then that I'd actually end up in Japan shooting a totally different yarn with the veteran Robert Ryan and an up-and-comer named Robert Stack? But that's another chapter.
Fast forward twenty-five years. Cut to 1979 and the Hollywood studio where I was doing a walk-on for Steven Spielberg in his adventure picture 1941. After lunch, Steven asked me to accompany him to the parking lot to see his car. I told him I didn't want to see his goddamned car, but Spielberg insisted. We got out there, and he explained that he always carried one of his favorite films around with him in his trunk. He opened the trunk. Believe it or not, he had a print of Hell and High Water in there.
30
Cherry Blossoms
and Whirligigs
M y wife, Martha, and I took up residence in a posh apartment on Belgrave Square in London in the fall of 1954. My deal with Zanuck gave me six months off to do any picture I wanted. In those days, if you worked fast that was enough time to write, cast, and shoot a movie. I worked fast.
John and Jimmy Woolf were based in England. Thanks to John Huston, I'd met the Woolf brothers while they were on the West Coast and had hit it off with them. We ended up making a handshake deal to do a picture together. They put me up only a stone's throw from Hyde Park Corner. While I was walking around Kensington Gardens and St. James's Park, I'd figured out a way to rework my yarn about a bank heist committed by some ex-GIs. I'd set the story in England, with Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson as the leads. It would be my way of tipping my hat to David Lean's Brief Encounter. But the Woolf brothers and I didn't see things the same way. They wanted bigger stars. They also wanted me to eliminate scenes that they considered too violent, scenes that I knew were essential for my story. Things were not going well.
John and Jimmy Woolf were honorable, and they knew how to do things in style. As much as we tried, however, our project together didn't get off the ground. They'd go on to make Room at the Top (1959), Of Human Bondage (1964), Oliver! (1968), and The Day of the Jackal (1973). They were good men and good producers.
Zanuck called me from Hollywood to see how things were going in London. I had to admit I was unhappy about the turn of events.
"Sam, I want you to come home and direct Soldier of Fortune."
I knew the novel by Ernest Gann, a story about a mercenary hired to search for a woman's husband imprisoned by the Chinese.
"Come on, Darryl, that story's been done a million times," I said. "You know I like to do new yarns. Originals."
"But you'll get to work with Gable, Sam."
"Gable or not," I said, "that's not my cup of tea. People have seen it before."
"What about The Left Hand of God?" suggested Zanuck. "We own the book. We can get Bogart to star."
I'd read William E. Barrett's novel. I liked his heavy, a guy who disguises himself as a priest to escape the cops. I'd top that, showing the criminal climbing up the church's hierarchy until he finally becomes pope. The higher the sonofabitch's station, the more crimes he commits. Zanuck chuckled on the other end of the line.
"You'll get us all excommunicated, Sam! We're going to give it a military twist."
Edward Dmytryk ended up directing both those pictures for Fox. Even with Gable and Bogart, they were forgettable.
"What about Japan?" asked Zanuck. "Would you like to shoot a picture there?"
"Holy mackerel, Darryl, now you're talking!"
Zanuck knew me damn well. I'd been fascinated with the Orient all my life, read a great deal about it, and would jump at the chance to work there.
"No major studio has ever made a movie in Japan," Darryl told me. "Especially since the war."
"Let's go!" I yelled happily into the phone.
Zanuck wanted me to use Harry Kleiner's script from Street with No Name (1948) as source material. He had it couriered to me in London. I took Kleiner's structure-that of a police agent going undercover to infiltrate a gang of criminals-and wrote my own screenplay. I called it House of Bamboo, incorporating into the yarn some features from my story about ex-GIs planning crimes like military operations. I moved the entire shebang to Tokyo, added stuff about Japanese contemporary life, threw in some sexual exploitation and interracial romance, and then, for some unexpected pizzazz, wrote a violent love scene between two hardened criminals. The core of the movie was about betrayal.
I put the final touches on the script and delivered it to Zanuck. Led by tough gang leader Sandy Dawson, a ruthless mob of ex-servicemen is holding up ammunition trains in Japan. Dawson's prepared to kill anyone to maintain his power, even Griff, one of his closest accomplices. Downand-out ex-serviceman Eddie Spannier arrives from the States and hooks up with the gang. His real name's Kenner, and he's a plant working for the cops. He falls for Mariko, a Japanese gal who's Griff's widow. Mariko and Eddie join forces to bring down Sandy and his gang.
Zanuck loved it, even the homoerotic scene with the two gangsters, which at the time was very daring. See, the Sandy Dawson character is pivotal to my yarn. When he feels his power as the "Ichiban," the number one man, dwindling, he blows his top. He ends up murdering Griff, his closest accomplice (played in the movie by Cameron Mitchell), whom he thinks betrayed him. Dawson really loves Griff but shoots him anyway. He plugs him while he's taking a bath. The bullets go clean through the tub and Griff's body, puncturing six neat holes through which hot water spurts out. Dawson takes Griff's limp head in his hands and talks to him as he gently caresses his hair. There's a terrifying sincerity in his manner, an utter negation of reality. The unpredictable machinations of his twisted brain are now fully exposed:
SANDY (with compassion)
I wish I hadn't bee
n right. But I was, Griff. Like always. But I didn't figure you'd run to the police. I didn't know you were that far gone. But I understand what made you do it, Griff. Believe me I do. A man with your ambition, with a crazy idea in his head I was trying to shove him out....
(gently)
You see it now, don't you, Griff? Why I had to pull you out of the line? I couldn't jeopardize the whole outfit. You had it, Griff....
(patting the dead man's head)
But it's all right now, Griff. All right.
Two gangsters, one alive and one dead. Sandy is gentle for the first time, almost sensual. Except the object of his affection is his dead victim, showing just how insane the sonofabitch has really become!
In the fifties, homosexuality was taboo. No studio would go anywhere near it. Zanuck allowed me to use that scene because it was dressed up like a gangster vendetta. Darryl was a coolheaded studio boss with one eye always on the box office. He knew gangster movies sold tickets. Remember that when he was at Warner Brothers, Zanuck worked with Hal Wallis on masterpieces like Little Caesar (1931) and I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang (1932), both smash hits.
When I grew up, people knew very little about homosexuality. There was a book on the subject that I remember reading in the thirties entitled The Well of Loneliness, by Radclyffe Hall. It was a big success. Of course, people thought there was something illicit about reading it. Radclyffe Hall was a lesbian and wrote well. Her book made people jealous, because, like alcoholic beverages, it became popular even though it was banned. The silliest damn thing was that even discussing the subject of homosexuality was frowned upon. Since the world began, it's existed. Even when you do talk about it, you can't stereotype people or generalize their relationships, each one being special. Hell, I hate stereotypes and categories, whether it's about homosexuality, heterosexuality, race, nationality. What good do stereotypes do us, except to turn us into simple-minded bigots or fundamentalist zealots?
For House of Bamboo, I knew I wanted tall actors to play the gangsters because their height would immediately distinguish them from the Japanese actors who were, for the most part, small in stature. When I explained this to my producer, Buddy Adler, he thought of Robert Ryan for Sandy. Buddy called him from my office, and, after only a brief explanation of the role, Ryan accepted. Robert became a true friend. He was well read and balanced, a kindhearted man with grand democratic ideals.
Getting ready to shoot a scene from House of Bamboo with )(rom left to right) Cameron Mitchell, Robert Stack, and Robert Ryan, ip55
For the role of Eddie, we considered Gary Cooper. I knew Gary well. He'd wanted to buy the remake rights to I Shot Jesse James, so we'd met several times to discuss that project. Cooper and I had a lot of warmth for each other. He called to say he'd love to play the part of the infiltrator in Bamboo. But I had to turn him down. See, Zanuck wanted the picture shot in CinemaScope. We could get some great panoramas in Japan. My plan was also to film in the streets of Tokyo for local color. Had I cast Cooper, an international star, he'd have been recognized wherever he went. I needed an unknown actor for Eddie.
Robert Stack was tall and handsome, and nobody knew who the hell he was back then. Stack was recommended to me by writer-director Budd Boetticher, for whom Stack had played the lead in Bullfighter and the Lady (1951). Budd, an ex-bullfighter himself, was a great guy and a good friend. I used to go over to Budd's office and pace around his desk, reading him some scene I'd just knocked out. I must have waved my cigar around like a paintbrush, because Budd always complained that I'd burn holes in his fancy jackets. It was Boetticher who told me that Stack was a helluva good actor, professional and energetic.
Nothing in Stack's training could have prepared him for House of Bamboo. In one early scene, I hid our cameras on a tough Tokyo street where gangs, winos, and derelicts lived. I costumed Bob in an old raincoat, and told him not to shave so that he'd fit right in. He was supposed to rummage through the garbage cans, then run down the street when we cued him. The cameras started rolling. Bob did exactly what I asked him to. Suddenly, my Japanese production assistant screamed something in Japanese and started pointing at Bob. People came running. Bob didn't understand Japanese, but when he saw the mob rushing toward him, he took off and ran like hell. I'd told the assistant to yell out: "Thief! Thief! Get him!" People didn't know that it was a movie, so they chased after Bob. It looked damn natural. That was the idea.
What I hadn't figured on was the mob assaulting Bob. Fortunately, a Japanese cop was nearby and put an end to it, telling the people that caught Stack that he wasn't really a thief, that we were making a movie. Unfortunately, it all happened too fast for my camera crew and we never got the scene on film. Bob resented me for that incident for many years, but eventually got over it. It helped that I introduced him to Rosemary, his beautiful wife. They have one of the most enduring Hollywood marriages of anybody I know.
Another tough scene for Bob was when his character was supposed to be romantic with his Japanese lover, Mariko, in a park full of cherry trees. It was February and freezing. Bob had on slacks and a thin shirt. The entire crew were bundled in quilted jackets. There was an assistant art director up in the trees gluing on paper cherry blossoms because the real ones weren't out yet. Everything was finally ready.
"Bob," I shouted. "Goddamnit, warm up to her!"
"How?" cried Stack. "I'm freezin' my ass over here!"
I wanted to find a special Japanese actress for my female lead. Billy Gordon screened a slew of Japanese films for me. One actress with wonderful high cheekbones caught my eye. Her name in the credits was "Yoshika." Billy tracked her down to New York City, where she was living with her sculptor husband. Her name was Shirley Yamaguchi.' Incredibly, she was a socialite in America and an accomplished actress in Japan. Billy had Shirley do a screen test, and everybody loved her. She got the role of Mariko.
Working in Japan was a dream come true. When I was growing up, my mother had a few good Asian friends who frequently came to visit us in Washington Heights. I was mesmerized by the strange perfumes and spices of the Far East that turned up in my own home.
When I was still a copyboy, I ran across a writer named Robinson from National Geographic who told me enchanting stories about Asia, its people, and its geographical wonders. I vowed to myself that someday I'd get over there. As a young man, I found out that Americans had a helluva lot of preconceived notions about Asians. We first encountered them in America when they came here as immigrant laborers. I've always wanted to make a movie about that period, when the "coolies" laid train tracks across the American continent, mistreated by barbarian railroad contractors.
Like most of the Far East, Japan remained a mysterious place until well into the nineteenth century. Commodore Perry and Townsend Harris, the first U.S. consul general to Japan, didn't make their historic voyage to establish trade relations until 1854. Japan was veiled in its own opaque curtain of isolation, rigidly enforcing its sakoku policy that barred all foreigners.
A hundred years after Perry, I finally got to Japan. I was delighted to plunge headfirst into their culture. What better way to do that than by going to local movie theaters to watch their films? The Japanese made magnificent pictures and used color so wonderfully. Mizoguchi, Gosho, Naruse, Murata, Imai, Yamamoto, Kurosawa, Ozu. What directors! What technique! What balls they had! I remember being particularly impressed by the power and beauty of the movies made by Teinosuke Kinugasa. There was a Kinugasa movie playing at that time called The Gate of Hell (1953), and I loved it.
Japanese audiences were such serious moviegoers. They'd line up early in the morning for a show. They were so connected to the stories and the characters up on the screen. Through their films, I discovered some of their folklore. I learned that the Japanese had their own type of cloak-and-dagger yarns, Western tales, and gangster stories. They even had their own Gary Cooper. For every one of our myths about cowboys riding off into the sunset or knights jousting for a maiden's honor, the Japanese had something
comparable. Their movies had everything: neorealism, fantasy, subtlety, epic narrative, lyricism, violence. Unfortunately, their pictures didn't often make it to the States, except for the notable exception of Kurosawa's masterpiece, The Seven Samurai (1954). Even then, they chopped Kurosawa's movie down to only one-third of its original length. It was still a magnificent work.
I wanted to capture a certain mood in House of Bamboo that I hadn't seen in either Japanese or American films: the clash between our culture and theirs. At that time, Japan was very anti-American, not only because of the scars of war, but also because of the growing influence of the Japanese communists. I got a taste of their antipathy at a press conference that was organized before we started shooting the picture. Journalists were testy, their questions combative.
With Shirley Yamaguchi, setting up a tricky scene at the waterfront markets in Tokyo
"You want to use one of our trains for your film," said a newspaperman who worked for the biggest communist paper. "What is going to happen to the poor people who take that train every day to go to work?"
I told him that Twentieth Century Fox would pay to have those people picked up and taken to work in comfortable buses.
Another newspaperman asked me if my film was political.
"Of course," I said. "The villain in my story wants to have more money. Exactly like you would like to have more money. The difference is that in my movie the man kills for it. You won't do that because you don't want to wind up in jail."
That caused some chuckles, but there was no denying the tension, just beneath the surface, simply because I was an American shooting a Western film in their country. Sometimes the tension erupted. On one of the first days of shooting, Robert Ryan had a straightforward scene in which he was supposed to drive up a busy city street and hop out of his car. When our production crew arrived that morning, a truck with red flags and loudspeakers was already parked there, playing loud music. The protesters chanted anti-American slogans, trying to ruin the scene as best they could. I approached the situation with a sense of humor, because they were doing their job and I was doing mine. I told Joe MacDonald, our cameraman, to set up as if nothing were wrong. Then he was to pan the camera around to the demonstrators and film them demonstrating. We'd use their rally as background footage somewhere in the movie. As soon as Joe panned the camera to the protesters, they got scared and beat it.
A Third Face: My Tale of Writing, Fighting and Filmmaking Page 33