Still, Tom Pollock at Universal came back to me with an offer to write and direct a remake of the 1948 noir Night Has a Thousand Eyes, with Marty and Jonathan executive producing. The original, starring Edward G. Robinson, had been directed by John Farrow, whom I'd known back in the fifties. Farrow was a helluva writer. He'd married actress Maureen O'Sullivan, Tarzan's Jane, and had seven children, including the actress Mia Farrow. Adapted from the novel by Cornell Woolrich, Night Has a Thousand Eyes was a tale about precognition. The book had all the elements for a good picture. There'd be a million ways to make a "Fuller" film out of it, first writing a "grab 'em by the balls" script, then getting a pow erful cast, inventing exciting shots and setups. "Hell yes, let's do it!" I said to Pollock, and I got down to banging out yet another script.
See, I had to keep making movies. It was in my blood after all these years. Sure, I had serious misgivings about my physical condition, but I didn't tell anyone, not even Christa. I felt depleted, increasingly out of breath. My hands trembled without reason. And since our return from Brazil, nightmares made sleeping hellish. In my bad dreams, I became characters in my movies, sometimes the old Indian in Run of the Arrow who is scorned by the young braves, sometimes the commanding general in Merrill's Marauders trekking through the jungle with his soldiers, sometimes Johnny Barrett trapped in an asylum in Shock Corridor. I woke up before dawn, soaked from my own sweat, as if I'd been running from a vicious white dog.
Pushing aside doubts about my health, I decided to move forward as best I could on upcoming projects. Maybe it was pride or stubbornness, but even at eighty-two, I still wanted to think of myself as productive.
While working on a new adaptation for Night Has a Thousand Eyes, I also wrote an original script with Christa called Girls in Prison (1994) for director John McNaughton, whose Mad Dog and Glory (1993) had really impressed us. Made for TV and starring novice actress Anne Heche, Girls in Prison was a pastiche of prison movies, even poking fun at my nymphomaniac scene in Shock Corridor.
Inspired by our trip to Brazil, Christa and I also did a children's book together, Sarikina and the Crocodiles. She wrote the tale about a young Karaja Indian whose father is killed by crocodiles, and I did the drawings that illustrated the story.
In addition, two documentaries with me were going into production. I was too busy and too tired to participate, but I'd given my word to the filmmakers and I wouldn't let them down. First, there was An American in Normandy, produced for a French/German cable channel, Arte.2 A crew under director Jean-Louis Comolli filmed me in Normandy reminiscing about the Big Red One's landing at Omaha and our battles through the hedgerows behind the coast. An American in Normandy followed the route of my division via all those little towns with unforgettable names that I'd jotted down hurriedly in my journal and engraved in my brain, names like Colleville-sur-Mer, Colombieres, Marigny, Cametours, Carantilly, Dangy, Gavray, and Mortain.
For a war veteran, revisiting the rolling fields of white crosses in Normandy is overwhelming. I made a point of stopping by a more recent grave, that of Monsieur Brobant, the first civilian we'd come across after the assault on Colleville. He was the only man who had seemed normal to me in the frenzy of June 6, 1944. Now he was gone. I laid a bouquet of flowers and a small bottle of cognac on his gravestone.
Then came The Typewriter, the Rifle 6- the Movie Camera, brainchild of actor Tim Robbins, backed by the Independent Film Channel and British Film Institute. We'd met Robbins at the Deauville Festival, where he was presenting Bobby Roberts (1992,), a smart political film. He'd always wanted to branch out into directing. Like Cassavetes, Tim had the vision and tenacity to do it. Along with director Adam Simon and a full crew, Tim arrived in Paris that winter to shoot a series of interviews with me. Robbins was bright, respectful, and fun to be with. Besides, he asked smart questions. I loved his spirit and tried to give him good stuff for his documentary without being boring.
Tim came up with a word-association game we played on camera, the lens right in my face. He'd throw out an idea and I'd respond, like mental Ping-Pong.
For An American in Normandy, I revisited the hedgerows that had been so treacherous fifty years before.
"Hero," Robbins said.
"Don't believe in it," I said.
"Coward."
"Don't believe in it."
Fascist.
"Enemy of mankind."
"Communist."
"Enemy of mankind."
"Democrat."
"Mankind."
We were in the middle of shooting The Typewriter, the Rifle &the Movie Camera when we heard that a big earthquake had hit California. With many telephone lines down, it was hard to place a call to our tenants to find out about damage to the Shack. We finally got through. Other than falling books and a broken globe, our home had survived unscathed. Leaving Paris for other commitments, Tim Robbins made a date with me to return to shoot the final interviews for his film.
I continued plugging away on the screenplay of Night Has a Thousand Eyes, working late into the night. To get me out of the house, Christa urged me to accept a few of the scores of invitations from festivals. A few of them brought a warm smile to my old face: Locarno, where Marco Mueller gave me a lifetime achievement award and screened Forty Guns on the gigantic screen in the town's central piazza to thunderous applause; Berlin, where Mika Kaurismaki presented Tigrero: A Film That Was Never Made to a packed house that came to their feet and clapped wildly at the end; Cattolica, where I met novelist James Ellroy, a tall, lean guy wearing a colorful shirt and spectacles.' A fan of my movies, Ellroy had an acerbic wit I enjoyed. He anointed me with the Rabelaisian moniker "crusty old cocksucker." I loved it and started referring to myself as "this crusty old cocksucker."
One night that remains vague to me, I fainted dead away in front of my Royal. Christa found me and called lespompiers, the great French firemen, who whisked me to the emergency room of the American Hospital, in Neuilly. I had an abscess on my lungs and an irregular heartbeat. The doctors inserted a pacemaker in my chest to keep my ticker beating on time. My lungs cleared up beautifully, but my cigar-smoking days were over.
I returned to rue de Reuilly in a horribly weakened state. The summer of 1994 came and went as I gradually recovered my mobility. Tim Robbins called, but Christa regretfully told him that I was too frail to work. She gave him our blessing to shoot footage in my office along with Quentin Tarantino back at the Shack. They were able to finish The Typewriter, the Rifle & the Movie Camera with that footage, clips from my films, and interviews with Marty Scorsese and Jim Jarmusch.
America had been calling ine home for a long time. Plans for returning always seemed to be pushed back. My poor health put off the move yet again. The closest I could get to my beloved office in Laurel Canyon was to shut my eyes tight and picture the crammed bookshelves, the stacks of newspaper clippings, the film cans, the World War II artifacts, the humidors, and the framed posters from all my movies. How I yearned to go home once and for all!
Playing the sick, old papa of Gabriel Byrne in Wim Wenders c End of Violence, 1997
Then I fell into the black hole of my stroke. That fall, it clobbered me in the courtyard of our apartment. How I survived is still bewildering to me. I wondrously pulled through, thanks to my fabulous French doctors and the loving care of my wife and my daughter. For the last couple months of my convalescence, I was moved to St. Maurice Hospital, built inside a Napoleonic chateau outside of Paris. I gradually regained my strength and capacities, but my speech was blurred. I'd launch into a story, then find myself in a verbal dead end, saying unintelligible words, or calling things by new names. "Telephone" became "blue bell blue," which made my girls laugh hilariously. Laughing turned out to be one of the only things I could still do effortlessly. Good friends like Peter Bogdanovich, Curtis Hanson, and Jerry Rudes came to visit. Jonathan Demme sent his producing partner, Ed Saxon, to see me. Saxon, a lovely man, made me feel great by wishing me a speedy recovery so I could get back to work
on Night Has a Thousand Eyes. I appreciated the gesture. But we all knew that it was a thousand-to-one long shot that I'd ever be vigorous enough to direct a motion picture again. It was sweet to dream about it, though.
By the fall of 1995, my doctors gave me their blessing for the trip back to California. We were finally going home. Samantha postponed her studies at the Sorbonne to come with us. My poor health had been very stressful for my daughter. Through it all, she was a real trooper, making me feel like the luckiest father in the world. She's going to be a helluva lady.
It felt so damn good to get back to the Shack. The place needed some repair, but nothing too serious. Christa and Samantha took charge. I've been the best-cared-for outpatient in the world. It was no piece of cake, believe me, because I was as cantankerous as ever, and hated like hell not being independent. No matter, their affection and good spirits always brought a smile to the wrinkled face on this crusty old cocksucker. Like in the old days, good friends dropped in, and once again, the Shack was host to long lunches out by the pool and boisterous dinners around our "Mark Twain" dining-room table.
I was in no shape to go out. When I did, it was for special occasions. One was to shoot a scene for Wim Wenders in his film The End of Violence (1997), playing Gabriel Byrne's father, who-what else?-is a recovering stroke victim. It was hardly acting, but it was good to smell the lights and cameras on a movie set again. Another memorable outing was to a big Hollywood shindig to receive something called the "Independent Spirit Award," presented by my old pal Peter Bogdanovich. Peter brought the prize over to where I was sitting because there was no way in hell I could walk up to the podium to accept it. I stood up and put my arms around him. The audience applauded.
With their love and support, Christa and Samantha kept me going through thick and thin.
"Kiss me!" I said. An actor by training, Bogdanovich took direction perfectly. He kissed me.
Since the stroke, all my attention has been focused on these memoirs. Progress was slow indeed. Remembering is hard work, even when your brain is in perfect shape. Christa has helped me through the tough task of getting it all down on paper, her love and care allowing me to survive. As surely as this book must end, my life must soon come to a close.
So here's my last word, dear reader.
Love.
That's right. Love.
I don't give a damn if it sounds like some corny ending to a B movie. Everybody's got troubles, setbacks, frustrations, tragedies. Love gets us through them. Love inspires generosity, patience, and compassion. Love keeps us healthy and whole. If I've learned anything at all from writing all those stories, from fighting a world war, from making all those films, from being way up and being way down, I've learned that everything-every- thing.!-can be expressed in just four god-blessed words: Love is the answer.
Okay, now all you new voices, let yourselves be heard!
Thirty.
Notes
CHAPTER 2: PLUNGING IN HEAD FIRST
i. Sarah Margaret Fuller (1810-50), an American social reformer and author who espoused transcendentalism and fought for equal rights for women and, with the aid of Ralph Waldo Emerson, founded The Dial, a periodical dedicated to publishing verse and philosophical writings; Melville Weston Fuller (1833-1910), the American politician and jurist, and eighth chief justice of the United States; and Loie Fuller (1862-1928), the American dancer, actor, producer, and playwright who achieved sensational fame for her improvisatory dances and was the subject of portraits by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec and Auguste Rodin.
CHAPTER 3: MAMA'S BOY
1. The exact line was, "Get out o' Mr. Fletcher's road, ye idle lounging little vagabond."
CHAPTER 4: MANHATTAN EXPLORER
t. Hoppy was no relation to another mentor, Gene Fowler. To honor him and that era, I had a character named Hoppy in one of my early novels, The Dark Page.
CHAPTER 5: RUN SAMMY RUN
i. Carl Chapman was a well-known convicted killer, waiting to be executed on death row.
2. The Fabian Society was a British socialist educational organization affiliated with the Labour Parry. The Fabian Society was founded in London in 1884 by a group of middle-class intellectuals who rejected the Marxist theory of class struggle but wished to promote equality for all through collective ownership and democratic control of the nation's resources. Believers in peaceful and gradual change, they named their group for the ancient Roman general Fabius Cunctator, who wore down a powerful enemy by using delaying tactics and avoiding decisive battles. In time, local Fabian societies affiliated with the parent body were founded all over Britain.
3. Fourier's Theory of the Four Movements and of General Destinies (1808) expounded his social system and his plans for the cooperative organization of society. The system, known as Fourierism, is based on his belief in a universal principle of harmony, displayed in four departments: the material universe, organic life, animal life, and human society. This harmony can flourish only when the restraints that conventional social behavior places upon the full gratification of desire have been abolished, allowing people to live free and complete lives.
Brook Farm was a cooperative community established in 1841 in West Roxbury (now part of Boston) by leaders of the philosophical movement known as transcendentalism. Among the American literary and religious leaders associated with Brook Farm were Amos Bronson Alcott, William Ellery Charming, Charles Anderson Dana, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Margaret Fuller, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Theodore Parker, and Orestes Augustus Brownson. In 1843 the community came under the influence of Albert Brisbane (1809-90), father of Arthur. For two years the community was known as the Brook Farm Phalanx and was one of the headquarters of the Fourierist movement in the United States. From 1845 to 1849 the Brook Farm community published a weekly newspaper, The Harbinger. In 1846 the central building, or phalanstery, burned, and the community was subsequently abandoned in 1847. Brook Farm was the setting of a novel by Hawthorne, The Blithedale Romance (1852).
4. George Stoneman (1822-94) was a brigadier general under General McClellan (1861); served in Peninsular campaign (1861-62); major general of volunteers (i86z); engaged at Fredericksburg; under orders from General Hooker, led raid (April 13-May 2, 1863) toward Richmond; chief of cavalry bureau, Washington, D.C. (1863); engaged in Atlanta campaign under Sherman (1864); led raids in southwestern Virginia, eastern Tennessee, and the Carolinas (1864-65); retired (1871); and was governor of California (1883-87).
5. Villa was a cattle rustler, but turned revolutionary when President Diaz put a price on his head. Francisco Madero was the leader of the revolt against Diaz, though he was quickly overthrown by General Victoriano Huerta.
CHAPTER 6: FLASH LIKE A NEW COMET
i. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (1921), The Sheik (1921), Blood and Sand (19zz), Monsieur Beaucaire (1923), The Eagle (1925), and The Son of the Sheik (1926).
CHAPTER 7: WORLD OF NEVERTHELESS
t. He began an article about a Colorado gal of ill repute who had murdered her boyfriend: "She laid her wanton red head on her lover's breast, then plugged him through the heart."
z. Son of Whitelaw Reid, the one-time Civil War correspondent and late ambassador to the Court of St. James.
3. From Gene Fowler's Skyline, his great reminiscence of being a journalist in the twenties.
CHAPTER 13: HUSKY
i. Before the producers released the movie, they chopped more than two hours, including some of my best scenes.
CHAPTER 15: IMPOSSIBLE TO FEEL BLESSED
1. Terry Allen was reassigned after Sicily to the tooth "Timberwolf" Division. We wouldn't see Terry again until his troops and ours teamed up fighting side by side in the final assault on Germany, first in Aachen, then during the breakthrough at the Remagen bridgehead.
CHAPTER 26: PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS
i. Paul Jarrico wrote this 1948 picture about a silent nine-year-old Czech boy, a survivor of Auschwitz, who flees a refugee center in postwar Germany and is found by an American GI.
1. Among his many credits, Russell shot Hitchcock's Psycho (196o).
2. The date of Gutenberg's first bible is generally recognized to be 1456.
3. Used by reporters since the time of Bennett and Greeley, this was the traditional closure for a reporter's copy, i.e., "The End."
CHAPTER 28: DON'T WAVE THE FLAG AT ME
i. This line, already absurd when I wrote it in the fifties, makes audiences nowadays roar with laughter at the paranoid patriotism of those times.
CHAPTER 30: CHERRY BLOSSOMS AND WHIRLIGIGS
i. Born to Japanese parents in Manchuria in 1920, Shirley used the Chinese name Li Xianglan (Ri Koran, in Japanese) and made pro-Japanese films in Japanese-occupied areas in China. Shirley was nicknamed "the Judy Garland of Japan," with many hit recordings. She married sculptor Isamu Noguchi and became a political personality in Japan, elected to several terms in the House of Councillors, the upper body of Japan's parliament. Her life story was made into a musical that appeared on Tokyo stages.
CHAPTER 32: WHERE'S YOUR PRIDE, MA?
1. O'Meara's mother is played by Olive Carey, who appeared in a lot of John Ford pictures.
2. Cooper (1789-1851) was the author of, among many popular classics, The Spy (1821), The Pioneers (1823), The Last of the Mohicans (1826), The Pathfinder (1840), and The Deerslayer (1841).
3. This song was part of Young's score for Around the World in 8o Days (1956).
CHAPTER 37: BREATHING REVENGE
A Third Face: My Tale of Writing, Fighting and Filmmaking Page 58