Your next produced screenplay was the 1970 Western El Condor starring Jim Brown and Lee Van Cleef.
[Interrupting] Please, I should also mention one more thing about Daddy’s Gone A-Hunting: there’s this wonderful Korean filmmaker who directed Oldboy. Do you know who I’m talking about?
Park Chan-wook.
That’s him. Park Chan-wook was in the United States recently making a picture at 20th Century Fox. [11] He contacted me and said he wanted to take me to lunch. So, we had lunch together and he didn’t speak much English, but he had an interpreter with him. He told me how much he loved all of my films and was a big fan. He then asked me if I had anything that he could direct, so I pulled out the old script of Daddy’s Gone A-Hunting and gave it to him. He immediately fell in love with it and wanted to do it. So, his agents took him to Warner Bros., the company that now owns the rights to Daddy’s Gone A-Hunting, and proposed that Park Chan-wook do a remake of the film. Unfortunately, Warner Bros. didn’t go along with it and they made no effort to help get this project made. At the very least, Park did love the script and thought he could have made a good picture out of it. It would have probably been much better than the original. Maybe one day somebody else will come along and do a remake of the picture. We’ll wait and see. Okay, you asked me about El Condor?
Yes, how did that movie happen for you?
Well, that was an interesting thing. National General, the company that had bought Daddy’s Gone A-Hunting, called me up and said, “Listen, we’ve got a project in Spain that we’re trying to make, a Western called El Condor. We’ve built a huge fort and we’ve also built a town, but we’ve decided that we hate the script!” [Laughs] Can you imagine that? They had all these big sets, but they had no satisfactory screenplay. The company wondered if I wanted to go over to Spain, look at the scenery and the sets that had already been constructed, to see if I could write a script that could utilize them. I said, “I’ve never heard of this before — writing a screenplay to fit scenery — but if you pay me enough money I’ll do it. My wife and I want to go first class all the way.” So, they gave us this tremendous deal, and we did indeed travel first class to Almería, Spain, where the Clint Eastwood spaghetti Westerns and Lawrence of Arabia had been previously shot. The producer of El Condor was Andre de Toth, a very famous old director himself. [12] The director of El Condor was John Guillermin, who would go on to make The Towering Inferno and several other big movies.
Including the notorious 1976 remake of King Kong.
Oh yeah, and that movie finished him! Anyway, Guillermin was an Englishman and had been in the RAF. He was a thin, wiry, tough, little guy, and de Toth was this big, thick Hungarian, who was also very tough. Now I was something of a hero over there because I was coming to save the production. They were all sitting around not knowing if they would get the chance to make the picture. It all depended on whether or not my script was any good. So, everybody was literally following my wife, Janelle, and I around all of the time. They were treating us like royalty and gave us the most beautiful suite. We also got $1,500 a week per diem, which was a lot of money back then. We didn’t have to touch the per diem because every night either Guillermin or de Toth would take us out for dinner. They were all vying for our attention, so everybody kept being more lavish and generous in their treatment of us. They even organized a banquet for me and it was splendid. Despite this generosity, if anybody saw me swimming down at the beach they wanted to know why I wasn’t upstairs, writing. Everybody was desperate to get started on the picture and was eager to read my pages. So, I wrote them a script that they liked, and Jim Brown and Lee Van Cleef were quickly cast, and everybody was happy. They gave me a big statue of a knight in shining armour that read: “To the liberator of El Condor.” Finally, on our last day, everybody saw us off on a boat when we left for Morocco. They even had fireworks on the pier and it was the best that I’ve ever been treated on any movie in my life.
Was that the end of your involvement with El Condor?
No. When I got back to Los Angeles, the executives at National General called me and said, “We’ve got a big problem. Lee Van Cleef won’t get on the plane. He doesn’t like the script and believes this movie is going to destroy his career. He won’t do the picture.” Apparently, an Italian producer named Alberto Grimaldi, who had produced several of the Spaghetti Westerns Van Cleef had previously appeared in, such as The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, had read my script and thought it was disastrous. He warned Van Cleef not to do El Condor as his character was ridiculous and could potentially ruin him. I then said to one of the executives, “Well, can I meet with Lee and discuss this?” They said, “Okay, we’ll arrange a meeting for you in a coffee shop.” So, I went there and met with Van Cleef, and at first he was extremely hostile. He said, “This film is going to damage me because people will laugh at me in this part.” I said, “But Lee, it’s a comedic role. The audience is supposed to laugh at you. This is your chance to do some comedy in a movie.” He looked at me and said, “You mean this is meant to be funny?” I said, “Of course it’s supposed to be funny. Didn’t anybody tell you that? It’s meant to be like Humphrey Bogart’s character in The African Queen — a broken down bum. This is a great opportunity for you to try something different.” Van Cleef’s hard face suddenly softened into a smile and he said, “Oh, that’s wonderful! I know what I’ll do — I’ll play it without my toupee!” I said, “That’s a fabulous idea!” He then got on the plane the very next day and was never happier. That was probably the very first time that I knew I could direct actors. By the time we finished that meeting, I had turned Van Cleef around completely. I realized that all I had to do was talk to actors in a decent fashion and fill them with confidence and self-belief. If you speak to actors intelligently they will respond.
What was John Guillermin like?
Guillermin was kind of an aggressive guy. I do remember that he liked to drive extremely fast. He was an excellent driver, but he always scared the hell out of everybody in the car. He would speed around the curved, narrow roads of the Costa del Sol, which were hardly wide enough for two vehicles to pass in opposite directions at the same time. I think that if anything had ever been travelling from the opposite direction you and I would not be having this conversation. Guillermin’s wife would be sitting in the car, screaming at him to slow down, but that would only make him step on the gas more. I don’t know what he was trying to prove, but it was a miracle that we all weren’t killed. I did not like to travel in a car with that guy.
Did Guillermin and de Toth enjoy a good relationship?
No, they didn’t get along at all. Guillermin kept saying to me, “Andre wants me to quit so he can take over and direct the picture.” It was well-known that Andre had previously produced a movie called Play Dirty for the French director René Clément. It had starred Michael Caine, and Andre had succeeded in driving Clément off the picture. As soon as Clément resigned, Andre took over the directing of Play Dirty. Apparently, Andre was trying to do the same thing with Guillermin by forcing him to quit El Condor, but Guillermin proved to be a much tougher proposition. They were both at each other’s throats all the time and eventually got into a huge fistfight in the office one day, which I was not witness to. I had gone back to America by that time so I wasn’t there to intercede in any way, but they had this terrible row that became violent. They would have these endless discussions about what color uniforms the Mexican Army should wear. Guillermin would say, [speaks in a cut-glass English accent] “Andre, I wish to acquire the red uniforms for the film.” Andre would then reply, [speaks in a harsh Hungarian accent] “No, John, you must have the blue uniforms! The blue uniforms are the best uniforms!” Guillermin would then say, “No, Andre, I’m afraid you don’t understand. I’m directing this film and I wish to have the red uniforms.” “No, John! You don’t know what you are talking about! We must have the blue uniforms!” “No, no, no, Andre. Please order the red uniforms from London” — which was where the costume house
was located. Naturally, as soon as Guillermin left the room, Andre picked up the phone and said, “Send the blue uniforms!” When the blue uniforms arrived in Spain — by the hundreds — what could Guillermin do? It was too late to change anything. It was the exact same situation when Guillermin found out that Andre was going off with the second unit and shooting scenes from the screenplay. He did this without telling Guillermin that these scenes were being shot. I mean, Andre was doing anything he could to provoke the guy. I’m sure he agitated Guillermin to the point where they were both literally punching each other out.
Did de Toth often make strange or controversial decisions during shooting?
Well, here’s another thing he did: I said to him, “Andre, suppose we have a tribe of Indians in the movie that live in the desert. They are emaciated Indians who are starving to death. They are eating insects and gila monsters — anything they can get their hands on. I want them to be the most seedy, rugged, dusty Indians you have ever seen.” Andre said, [speaks again in a harsh Hungarian accent] “I like that idea! The chief should be a very frail and skinny old man, but he fights like the Devil himself!” I said, “Yeah, but don’t give me any Hollywood Indians. And for god’s sake, don’t get me a cigar store Indian like Iron Eyes Cody.” If you don’t already know, there was an actor named Iron Eyes Cody who looked like Tonto in The Lone Ranger. He had appeared in many Westerns playing Indians. I think he was actually Italian, but he did look like an Indian. After telling Andre I didn’t want Iron Eyes Cody, about three weeks later he walks up to me and says, “I’ve hired the chief! He is on his way!” I said, “That’s great. Who did you get?” He goes, “Iron Eyes Cody!” I said, “Wait a minute, Andre, I wasted half an hour of my life asking you not to hire Iron Eyes Cody.” He said, “Yes, but he will work as technical advisor.” I said, “What the hell does he know about Indians? He was born in Brooklyn for Christ’s sake!” [Laughs] Anyway, that was that. You simply couldn’t do anything with Andre.
Do you like El Condor?
I don’t know. Andre actually let me re-cut it. When he first came in with the film and previewed it in Hollywood, I looked at it and said, “Andre, you have got to make some cuts to this picture. There is some stuff that is really laughable and there is other stuff that simply does not work.” I gave him a list of about six cuts to do in the movie, and he followed my suggestions exactly and made all the changes that I’d requested. Whatever El Condor is, be it good or bad, a lot of it is because of the suggestions I made. I don’t think it’s a bad picture at all. I think it’s a rather enjoyable film.
After El Condor, you wrote the suspenseful 1971 television movie, In Broad Daylight. The story concerned a blind man, who discovers his wife is cheating on him with his best friend and devises a plot to murder her and frame him.
Uh-huh, and I thought that was a highly original idea. In Broad Daylight starred Richard Boone and Suzanne Pleshette, and it turned out pretty well. They were doing Movies of the Week for television, and I came up with this idea of a blind man who commits a murder. That one thought was basically the genesis of the story. We convinced ABC to finance the script and it wasn’t a bad movie except for one thing: the casting of Richard Boone. Boone is a wonderful actor, but the character he plays in the movie is supposed to be a blind stage actor who pretends he can see in order to kill his philandering wife. To successfully commit this murder, he has to put on a disguise so he won’t be recognized when he goes to the place where he hopes to execute the crime. Even though he can’t see, he knows this location by heart and can find his way there. The important aspect of the plan is that he is wearing a successful disguise, but unfortunately it was impossible to disguise Richard Boone’s face. He had such a huge, craggy face there was almost no way you could conceal his distinctive features. So, the whole concept didn’t work as far as I was concerned.
It’s still an intriguing idea if it could be executed with some plausibility.
It’s funny you should say that, because a couple of years ago I got a call from the producer Marty Erlichman, who is also the manager of Barbara Streisand. Somehow, Erlichman had seen this old TV movie and wanted to do a feature film remake of In Broad Daylight starring the blind opera singer, Andrea Bocelli. His idea was that Bocelli would play a blind opera star who commits a murder. Erlichman felt that Bocelli would be perfect for the lead role. I said, “Yeah, that sounds great. Let’s get the rights back and I’ll be happy to do it.” Unfortunately, the project fell apart because people became convinced that Bocelli really couldn’t carry the part off. They felt he could certainly sing, but he really couldn’t act. Bocelli is really quite wonderful but he keeps his eyes closed all the time. It might have been slightly disconcerting for an audience to have a leading man in a film who never opens his eyes.
The executive producer of In Broad Daylight was Aaron Spelling, one of the giants of American broadcasting. What was he like to work with?
I didn’t work with Aaron Spelling at all. I had nothing to do with him. I only met Spelling on one occasion when we had a meeting about some television projects. I suggested a series idea to him called Mod Squad which was about a bunch of young cops who go undercover in high schools to try and uncover crime amongst teenagers and drug dealers, things like that. I gave Spelling my idea for Mod Squad and he never said a word about it and actually changed the subject. A few months later, he announced a new television series on ABC called The Mod Squad, which was about three young people recruited to work as undercover cops. I’m convinced that he stole the idea from me. So, that was my one and only experience with Aaron Spelling.
In 1974, shortly after completing work on It’s Alive and Hell up in Harlem, you wrote the well-received Western Shoot-Out in a One-Dog Town.
That was another TV movie, which starred Richard Crenna and Stephanie Powers. It was originally called Bank, but was later re-titled Shoot-Out in a One-Dog Town. My script was rewritten by another writer who did receive credit. The thing I liked about that movie was it had all these wonderful character actors in it that had appeared in Westerns — people like Jack Elam [13] and others that you’ve seen in cowboy pictures for years. [14] Most of the time you don’t know their names, but you recognize their faces. They are the usual stock villains in Westerns and they were all in this one picture. It wasn’t a bad idea and it wasn’t a bad movie, but it wasn’t a good one either. Shoot-Out in a One-Dog Town was about a gang of bad guys who want to rob this payroll. The people with the payroll arrive in a small one-horse town and discover there’s a little bank located there. The banker, who is played by Crenna, has just installed a big safe into his building. He receives the cash from the people who were carrying it, who I guess have been killed or wounded, and deposits the payroll in the safe. Then, the vicious outlaws show up and, naturally, they want the money. This means that the banker must now decide whether he is going to give up the cash or try to keep it. The dilemma is that if he gives up the money, it is not only the end of the bank but the end of the town, too. The only way to establish a thriving town is to demonstrate that there is some law and social order in place, some modicum of normal, civilised behaviour that is securely fixed. If the bank collapses, that will all be lost, and there will be nothing. The town will just dry up, die, and blow away. So the banker tries to resist giving the villains the dough. In the end, he blows up the bank with himself stored inside the safe with the money. The bad guys all come into the bank and the building blows up all around them. Nobody survives except for the banker nestled in the safe. [Chuckles] I thought that was good.
The film has been routinely compared to Fred Zimmerman’s High Noon.
Yeah, but High Noon is every other Western! Zimmerman’s film was nothing but the last ten minutes of all the other Westerns you’ve ever seen, comfortably stretched out to an hour and a half. It basically shows you that the bad guys are coming into town and the sheriff is going to have to face them alone because nobody wants to help him. Isn’t that the standard plot of most Westerns? What
Zimmerman succeeded in doing was making that one idea last the whole ninety minutes. There’s nothing particularly original in High Noon, but at the time it was released people took it to be some kind of political statement about conformity in America and the communist witch hunts. They felt it was a comment on individuals being ostracized and abandoned by their friends. It was certainly pertinent for the time in which it was made.
In 1980, you provided the story for William Richert’s black comedy, The American Success Company based on your script The Ringer. It starred Jeff Bridges as a wealthy but disillusioned husband who assumes a separate second identity as a would-be criminal in order to get back at his wife and his boss who have routinely humiliated him. Can you talk about the history of this project?
Larry Cohen Page 11