A Third Face: My Tale of Writing, Fighting and Filmmaking

by Samuel Fuller;Christa Lang Fuller;Jerome Henry Rudes

  Of course, life doesn't ever work out the way you think it will. Rather than prolific, the sixties turned out to be tough-going. The seventies and eighties didn't get any easier. I resorted to my tramping ways, going wherever in the world a producer would back one of my projects. Even then, I didn't make half the movies I wanted to. Don't get me wrong, not a single moment do I regret. Even when things looked really bleak, I remained optimistic, excited by the yarns I was working on. One of the tricks I've learned is to tap constantly into my creative juices, no matter whether there's a producer to finance a movie or not. When you're least suspecting it, one'll show up. You damn well better be ready to pull a script you really love out of your desk drawer!

  I don't know what the hell it was-you name it, too controversial, too direct, too raw-but after The Naked Kiss, moguls, producers, and starlets weren't knocking on my door anymore. To survive in the movie business, I considered whatever propositions showed up, even the half-baked ones.

  Along came a young man named David Stone with an intriguing idea about a modern adaptation of Aristophanes' Lysistrata, to be shot in Paris.2 David assured me that his partner, Mark Goodman, had the financing for the picture all set up through his millionaire father. They wanted me to write and direct it. Only half believing the project would materialize, I said I'd do it. Then a decent check showed up with a contract. Attached was an airline ticket to France. Packing up my cigars and my Royal, I was on my way.

  It was late September 1965 when I arrived in Paris. David and Mark had rented me a furnished apartment in Montmartre on a narrow dead-end street called Impasse Trainee. The boys also provided me with a car, though I rarely needed it. My driver parked the limo downstairs, next to a wax museum off Place du Tertre, then drank coffee, smoked cigarettes, and waited. It was nice to know the car was there if I needed to go somewhere. But I didn't. At the conclusion of a long day of writing, I sent the chauffeur home.

  Autumn in Paris is a wonderful time. From my apartment's window, I had a great view of Tertre, and beyond, the steep rooftops and thin chimneys jutting into the gray skies above the city. I settled into daily life in Montmartre. The only breaks I took from banging out my script were for long walks at dawn to buy my baguette, grabbing a cafe au lair and reading the Herald Tribune at a corner bistro that came straight out of a Toulouse-Lautrec painting. The leaves were turning golden. They drifted down into the gutters on either side of the cobblestone streets, swept away by the never-ending stream of water from some faraway hydrant.

  I was having a ball with Lysistrata. Right off the bat, I told the boys my script wasn't going to be anything like the original as written by Goodman and Noel Burch. The story I concocted was semi-science fiction-very contemporary stuff at the time-about a secret international society of gorgeous women who use sex, science, and violence to maintain peace around the world. I called the yarn Flowers of Evil, borrowing from one of Baudelaire's famous lines: "I have found it amusing to extract beauty from evil."

  One evening, I had my driver drop me off at the bottom of the Champs Elysees. I lit up a cigar and strolled up the broad, tree-lined avenue. From a distance, I saw the big words SHOCK CORRIDOR on the marquee of the MacMahon Theater. My picture had opened in France and was doing great business. I was curious to see how it played to a French audience. When I reached the movie house, I saw the jostling lines of film fans waiting outside for the next screening. I stood there puffing on my cigar, enjoying the scene. After they let the crowd in, I went up to the box office to buy a ticket for myself, but there were no more. The lady in the glass booth was sweet, but the screening was sold out. I tried to explain to her that I just wanted to stand in the back and watch my own film for a few minutes. The answer was still no, some crap about security. I made a big stink. The theater manager came over. I pointed at the words "Directed by Samuel Fuller" on the poster, then showed him my passport. He finally let me in.

  That French crowd was really hooked on my yarn. They were a rowdy bunch, here and there laughing, yelling, and whistling at scenes, but mostly wordless and engrossed. Maybe they loved it. Maybe they hated it. What was important for me was that Shock Corridor was getting a gut reaction. What can be better than having your picture shown to a packed audi ence, their faces arched upward toward the screen, everyone into a story that you've created from scratch? It was one of those moments when all the struggles and bullshit of moviemaking seemed worthwhile.

  In my Montmartre apartment in the fall of '1965. Paris was a helluva place to write and fall in love.

  As I continued my stroll along the Champs Elysees, a young man came up to me and introduced himself as a writer for Cahiers du Cinema, I think, Luc Moullet. I was happy to meet him because he worked for a helluva movie magazine. He invited me for a drink in the bar at Fouquet's. Moullet pulled out a recent issue of Cahiers with an article by Jean-Luc Godard calling Shock Corridor a "masterpiece of barbarian cinema." I didn't know what the hell that meant, but I was happy if it helped sell tickets. By then Godard had successfully made the transition from critic to New Wave director, with Breathless (A bout de Souffle, 1961) and Contempt (Le Mepris, 1963). Godard was still contributing reviews. Moullet wanted to set up a dinner so Jean-Luc and I could meet.

  About a week later, I showed up at Brasserie Lipp, just across from the Cafe Flor on St. Germain des Pres. Bazin and Godard were already sitting at a table by the window. With his thick black glasses, long curly hair, black beret, and Gaullois hanging off his bottom lip, Jean-Luc looked like Central Casting's choice for the role of "young French intellectual eccentric." Being eccentric was the only thing Godard and I had in common. Otherwise, we were really opposites, me coming out of a working-class background, Godard from an upper-class Swiss family whose money allowed him the luxury of bucking the French establishment. I was prone to excess, while Jean-Luc was a minimalist. I liked the guy, but certainly not because he told me how much my films had influenced him. I laughed at that influence crap. Let's face it, Godard had stolen a bunch of my ideas from Pickup on South Street and Underworld, U.S.A. for his early pictures. I didn't mind, but why not call it what it was.

  Jean-Luc was going to shoot a new film, called Pierrot lefou, with JeanPaul Belmondo and wanted me to appear in a scene. I suppose it was his way of saying thanks. I said I'd do it. Without the faintest idea what I was supposed to say, I showed up at a studio on the outskirts of Paris the day of the shoot. Godard stood me up against a wall in some fancy cocktail party set full of half-naked women and intellectuals, and put a glass of vodka in one hand and a good cigar in the other. He let me wear my sunglasses because of the bright lights. The Belmondo character strolled in and was introduced to me, "the American film director." Belmondo turned and asked me, "What is cinema?" We never rehearsed the damn scene. I wasn't sure what Jean-Luc wanted, so I took a puff on my cigar and played myself, blurting out a line in my tough-guy vernacular, which a bilingual lady repeated in French as I spoke.

  Jean-Luc Godard directs me for my walk-on in Pierrot le fou.

  "Film is like a battleground," I said. "Love. Hate. Action. Violence. In one word, emotion."

  One take, and that was that. Godard loved it. Believe me, I'd be rich if I had a nickel for every film magazine and festival program around the world who printed that goddamned line!

  A memorable evening that fall was organized in my honor at the Palais de Chaillot by Henri Langlois, founder of the French Cinematheque. Langlois was a big man who, behind his lumbering frame, dissimulated an incredible zeal for movies and moviemakers. The foremost archivist of all time, Langlois was personally responsible for saving thousands of films. Through year-round Cinematheque screenings, Langlois popularized classic movies and lost masterpieces. Every director in the world owes Langlois a debt of gratitude. My way of paying tribute to the great motion-picture collector was to name one of my characters Langlois in Quints World, a novel that was first published in Paris under the title La Grande Melee in 1985.

  That fall night back in 1965
, Langlois screened a couple of my pictures. There were many admirers hanging around at the reception afterward. I slipped outside, lit up a cigar, and had a smoke by myself in the lovely gardens of the stately Chaillot Palace, built for the Paris World's Fair of 1901. Just across the esplanade was the Eiffel Tower. A small, unpretentious man came over to me and introduced himself. He was Francois Truffaut. I told him I'd loved his picture The Four Hundred Blows (1959). It was great because the story was told through the eyes of a troubled boy. He said he identified with the children in my movies, characters like Tolly, in Underworld, U.S.A., and Short Round, in The Steel Helmet, kids struggling with adult problems.

  Like me, Francois had had a tough childhood. I liked this shy man, his warmth and thoughtfulness coming through immediately. He was a person of few words who chose them carefully. A friendship was forged then and there. Over the next two decades-through letters, books, and phone calls-Truffaut and I'd stay in touch. He came to see me whenever he was in Los Angeles. Once we met up at a reception at Universal for Alfred Hitchcock. Besides being a helluva director, Francois was a lovely person. I'll never forget the telegram he sent my daughter, Samantha, the day she was born: "I love you already. Your friend, Franccois."

  Before I left the festivities at the Cinematheque that night, a gorgeous gal walked up to me and introduced herself as "Miss South America." Her name was Maria-Rosa Rodriguez. She came from Ecuador and was working as a model and actress in Paris. We chatted a moment, then I said good night and got the hell out of there. Thinking that it's good for their careers, actresses always strike up conversations with directors. It's no big deal. How could I have known then how important the encounter with MariaRosa would turn out to be?

  One afternoon a few days later, I was typing away in my place in Montmartre. Through the windows of my apartment, I could see the top of the Sacre Coeur cathedral, with its steeples, like sugar-iced tits, and its flocks of filthy pigeons, the rats of the air. I went to the window and relit my cigar, taking in the view. In the street below, there was a beautiful young woman posing for photographers in front of the wax museum. From a distance, she looked just like Sophia Loren. Suddenly, she spotted me and waved up at my window.

  "Hiya, Sam!" she yelled in her sexy Latino accent. "Don't you remember me? The Cinematheque? Why don't you come down?"

  It was Miss South America again. I went downstairs. Once the photo shoot was over, Maria-Rosa and I went into one of the nearby cafes and had a drink. She was not only gorgeous but very sweet. The next natural step was to invite her to dinner that night. She accepted. I hadn't had any female company since I'd been in Paris. I was old enough to be her father, so it would just be for fun. We made a date to meet in a bistro called La Cloche d'Or, the Golden Bell.

  Later, I found out that Maria-Rosa went home and immediately called up one of her best friends, a German actress who was also just getting started in the business. The two young women shared cheap pasta dinners and exchanged precious gossip about upcoming films. The German actress spoke excellent English, French, and Spanish. She could translate my impossible American accent. I got a call that afternoon asking if I would mind if Maria-Rosa brought along her young actress friend. Having a chaperone sounded quaint, so I said okay. Hell, it was good for my libido to have a date with two young actresses. Maria-Rosa's friend turned out to be the woman who'd become my wife, companion, and partner for the rest of my days, Christa Lang.

  Destiny had concocted a far-fetched plan for the two of us to cross paths in Paris. Christa grew up in a working-class family in Germany but always dreamed of seeing the world. She was an excellent French student. When she was offered a position in France as an au pair with a well-to-do family, she grabbed it. It was her ticket out of boring middle-class sobriety. She quickly tired of baby-sitting and got herself to Paris to take up acting. By the time we met, Christa was starting to get small but credible roles, having been cast in films by Pierre Chenal (The Murderer Knows the Score, 1963), Roger Vadim (La Ronde, 1964), Claude Chabrol (The Tiger Likes Fresh Blood, 1964), and Jean-Luc Godard (Alphaville, 1965).

  Christa had just arrived back in the capital after shooting with Chabrol in Spain. That very day, she was on the Champs Elysees and got into the line of people waiting outside the MacMahon to see Shock Corridor. Her friends had told her the movie was a "must-see." Later, she would say my picture was like someone slapping her in the face.

  To Christa's delight, Maria-Rosa was having dinner that very evening with the director of Shock Corridor. Could Christa come along with them? You bet she could. She got all dolled up for the occasion. When Christa walked into the La Cloche d'Or with Maria-Rosa, I only had eyes for her, a blond bombshell with powdered cheeks and red lips just aching to be kissed.

  I started telling Christa all about my Flowers of Evil yarn, scene by scene. She said it reminded her of Ring Lardner's writing. Holy smoke, this young woman was not only gorgeous, but she knew a helluva lot about American literature. I told her how important a person Lardner had been in my life, how I used to hang around the great man as a young copyboy. One story led to another, and another. Christa and I talked the night away. She made a valiant effort to translate my nonstop storytelling into Spanish so Maria-Rosa could keep up with us. I almost forgot Miss South America was at the table! As we were leaving the restaurant, I promised Christa that I'd get her a copy of Lardner's complete stories from Bren- tano's, the English-language bookshop near the Paris Opera. I asked her if she would like to have dinner again sometime, just the two of us. She said yes. Both our hearts were bubbling.

  It was ten days before I called Christa again. Later, she told me those ten days were interminable for her. I kept postponing our next meeting because I was frightened by my sudden, strong feelings for this young woman. I'd vowed to myself to stay single. After the failure of my first marriage, I figured I just wasn't cut out for married life. Resigned to being a permanent bachelor, I was suddenly confronted by this smart, sassy German beauty who was thirty-two years my junior. Our age difference tortured me. Starting a relationship with Christa was a big responsibility. Tossing around in my bed at night, I kept asking myself what the hell a beautiful young woman like her would want with me. I wasn't making big money anymore. I couldn't help her in her career. Every bone in my body disavowed the possibility of Christa and me ever having a life together. Our connection was too goddamned spontaneous and irrational. But boy oh boy, was I smitten!

  Listening more to my heart than my brain, and with the pretext that I wanted to give her the book of Ring Lardner's stories, I finally called Christa. We met at a subway stop in Pigalle and walked up the hill to the Montmartre plateau above. She wanted me to try out one of her favorite restaurants, whose specialty was snails from Burgundy. I recoiled when she suggested I have a dozen of those slimy creatures. I'd never eaten snails before. But after I tried one of hers, dripping in butter and garlic, I ordered a dozen of my own. We ate and drank and talked and laughed away the night. Afterward, we walked arm in arm through Montmartre, stopping at the foot of Sacre Coeur to kiss. We ended up at my apartment, where Christa spent the night. It was marvelous.

  For the next few months, my bachelor pad became our love nest. During the day, I worked on my Flowers of Evil script. In the evening, I met Christa. She really knew her way around Paris. I was getting invited to all kinds of openings, parties, and cultural events. Christa was constantly at any side. She enjoyed the socializing. All the attention being showered on me was flattering at first. But it began to wear thin. The French were crazy about my movies. I came to understand that their infatuation was more to do with the fact that my films were American than that they were written and directed by me. It made me realize how much I missed America. As great as France was, I was far away from home, geographically and spiritually.

  David Stone and Mark Goodman loved the first draft of Flowers of Evil. I'd come up with a helluva ending for the picture that would take place in outer space. My leading lady is abandoned, revolving
endlessly through the infinite cosmos as the screen fades to black. I turned the script over to them and waited to hear about when we would begin production. The answer was never. The project collapsed because the elder Goodman had no intention of financing the picture. The old man didn't want to see his son getting involved in the movie business. I certainly could see his point, but there I was in Paris with a worthless movie deal.

  At first, I blew my top. I could've even sued the two would-be producers. But I felt that the boys had been sincere about wanting to make the movie with me, and they were so disappointed about the turn of events. It would've been perverse to take them to court. I don't like legal wrangles with people. Besides, to kick a guy when he's down is just not ethical.

  Even if I was upset about the unraveling of the Flowers of Evil project, I had to admit that the end result was surprisingly wonderful. By coming to Paris, I'd met a woman I loved and who loved me. Christa and I were already talking about getting married. Except for her, there was no reason for me to be in France anymore. I kept postponing my departure even though we knew it would be best for me to go home and find some real work. Christa would join me in the States as soon as possible. Our separation was going to be difficult, but I needed to get my life in order back in California to make room for a new partner.

  Before I packed my suitcase for the trip home, we took some last nostalgic walks together along the Seine, through the Orangerie, around Montmartre. Who knew when or if I'd ever be back? When I said goodbye and kissed Christa, I promised her I'd write every day and bring her over as soon as I'd squirreled away some dough. I left Paris in January 1966.

  When I got back to Hollywood, reality came hurtling down upon me. My career as a director seemed totally derailed. I certainly wasn't going to make any more movies with my last producer, Firks, or his distributor, Allied Artists. I was still angry at the way I'd been treated on Shock Corridor and Naked Kiss. I realized how spoiled I'd been by producers like Lippert, Zanuck, Dozier, and Warner. Those guys loved good stories. They fulfilled their financial obligations. They had class. They were mensches.