Clark Gable

by David Bret

  For the first time ever on the screen (it had almost happened in Hold Your Man) we witness the ultra-macho Gable in tears, a scene which took weeks of persuading him to even consider shooting. Real men did not cry, he yelled at Selznick and Victor Fleming, whatever the circumstances. Contemporary reports suggest the tantrums he threw on the set - threatening to walk off the picture and declaring that this time he meant it - gave many cause to believe he was little different from the ‘prima donna fags’ he was forever deriding, until Olivia de Havilland effected a solution. The scene was shot twice, in single takes - one with the tears, the other without so that Clark could watch the rushes and decide for himself. He plumped for the former, comforted in the scene by Melanie, who adds to his emotion, confessing she is risking her own life by having another child.

  When Bonnie dies in a riding accident identical to the one that killed her grandfather, and when Melanie also dies, we instinctively know the end of the Butlers’ marriage is imminent. ‘I’ve loved something that really doesn’t exist,’ says Scarlett of Ashley, while Rhett laments of Melanie, ‘She was the only completely kind person I ever knew - a great lady.’ He also realises the path is clear for Scarlett and Ashley to be together, if this is what they want, and therefore decides to return to Charleston to start a new life. Then comes the sequence where she begs him to take her with him, culminating with the infamous line which, in 2005, would be voted the most popular movie quote of all time by viewers of a Channel 4 television poll:

  RHETT: I’m through with everything here. I want peace. I want to see if somewhere there isn’t something left of life with charm and grace.

  SCARLETT: I only know that I love you!

  RHETT: That’s your misfortune . . .

  SCARLETT: Rhett - if you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?

  RHETT: Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!

  David Selznick anticipated a tremendous struggle getting the word ‘damn’ past the Hays Office censor so as a safety precaution he filmed an alternative take, where Rhett tells Scarlett, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t care!’ This of course would have robbed the scene of its essential clout - by this stage in their relationship Rhett has had enough of the fickle woman. The Hays Office permitted the original epithet but only after Selznick handed over a $5,000 ‘fine’. And if seats were vacated ‘in disgust’ when the film went out on general release, with this ‘filthy talk’ coming right at the end, Selznick was convinced it would not spoil the rest of the audience’s enjoyment.

  As for Scarlett, as always she has the last word and must be commended for her belief in the precognitive dream - the fact that all will turn out well in the end, so long as this is what one wishes. Sobbing on the stairs, which in the past have seen such passion between her and Rhett, she hears voices from the past - Ashley, her father, Rhett - then she looks up, her face lighting up with hope for the future as she defiantly pronounces, ‘I will have him back. After all, tomorrow is another day!’ Then we see her for the last time, silhouetted against the still desolate landscape - interpreted by millions around the world as the symbol of the woman waiting for the soldier to come home from the War - as the credits roll.

  Magnificence does not begin to describe what can be witnessed over three-and-three-quarter hours, $4 million well spent on arguably one of the greatest films ever made, and a box-office phenomenon. Gone With The Wind would gross four times this amount during its first year and figures released at the end of 2006 declared it had made over $500 million.

  Chapter Seven

  LOVE CONQUERS ALL

  On 8 March 1939, while shooting Gone With The Wind, Ria Gable was granted a Las Vegas divorce on grounds of desertion. Ben Maddox must have been tickled to report the statement issued by her lawyer, part of which read, ‘Marriage between a society woman and a movie star has a far better chance of surviving than one between two movie stars’. ‘Well, this one didn’t,’ Maddox concluded in Screenland, though one wonders what his readers would have had to say, had they known that he and not Carole Lombard had been party to much Gable pillow-talk while Clark was deciding whether or not to end his marriage. Or that one of the grounds for desertion cited in Ria’s petition referred to Clark’s many lovers, including the handsome young reporter.

  Carole was bombarded with questions concerning the divorce. Would they marry now that Clark was free? She refused to commit herself either way. The divorce had come smack in the middle of negotiations for a new contract that saw her signing a three-picture deal with RKO for a staggering $450,000 - far more than Clark ever dreamed of earning. Her first film was to be In Name Only, monopolising on the Gable situation. In this drama, starring another of her lavender friends, Cary Grant, she played the mistress of a married man whose wife, Kay Francis, refuses to grant him a divorce. Carole joked with reporters in what would be her only reference to recent events, ‘If I’d been the casting director, I’d have given Ria Kay’s part because the old bag’s got a monopoly on hearts of stone!’

  On 28 March, before shooting got underway on the new Lombard picture, the major studios closed for several days so that the executives and stars were free to attend the San Francisco première of Fox’s Alexander Graham Bell. Accompanying them on the trip were just about every reporter in Hollywood. Clark and Carole took advantage of the situation by eloping, undetected. Clark’s press officer, 34-year-old Otto Winkler, had married the previous week in Kingman, Arizona, so he and Carole decided to do the same. Accompanied by Winkler, they set off on the 350-mile trip early the next morning, wearing old clothes and with Carole’s hair in pigtails so that they hopefully would not be recognised en route. They arrived during the early afternoon, were married at once by a Methodist-Episcopalian minister, and by three the next morning, 30 March, were back in Hollywood at Carole’s house.

  On the way home Winkler called Howard Strickling to break the news. Strickling arranged a hasty press conference, for which Carole was instructed not to curse or discuss her husband’s alleged short-comings in the bedroom or his false teeth. This was about to begin when an angry call was put through from Louella Parsons, demanding to know why she had not been given an exclusive. Carole told her to jump into her car, that she would hold off the press conference until she arrived and would answer Louella’s questions first. Parsons’ response was that such gatherings were beneath her - unless Carole sent everyone home and afforded her a one-to-one she was not interested. For a while, Carole would find herself snubbed by the snooty hack. Following this, it was back to work for the newlyweds.

  In September 1939, war erupted in Europe, though for the time being few in the film capital showed interest in a ‘far away feud’ which might never concern them. Marlene Dietrich, who like Carole would do more than her fair share for the war effort, labelled these people ‘Lazy Sunbathers’ because, even when the situation in Europe worsened, they still did not wish to be involved. Between now and the various Gone With The Wind premières in December, Clark and Carole had contractual obligations. She was about to begin her second RKO picture, Vigil In The Night, but on the eve of shooting was rushed to the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital with severe abdominal pains. This time it was Otto Winkler’s turn to hoodwink the press into believing she was suffering from the usual appendicitis. Carole had in fact suffered a miscarriage.

  Clark, meanwhile, made what would be his last film with Joan Crawford - Strange Cargo, based on Richard Sale’s allegorical novel, Not Too Narrow, Not Too Deep, and directed by Frank Borzage - but only after Spencer Tracy had turned it down. Tracy had read critic W.H. Mooring’s comment in Film Weekly, ‘The title has a ring of a spade against earth, hasn’t it? And Hollywood loves to dig graves.’ Supporting was Ian Hunter and two fine Hungarian actors mostly typecast as villains at around this time: Paul Lukas and Peter Lorre. The film was shot on location at Pismo Beach and the neo-tropical Pico National Park - a first for Joan, who had not worked outside a studio since her silents days. It was also her least taxing on MGM’s costumes department:
the trio of ‘bargain basement’ dresses she wears cost less than $100.

  Strange Cargo is second only to Possessed in the eight Crawford-Gable vehicles, but even they are not as impressive here as Ian Hunter (1900-75), whose character, Cambreau, is a thinly disguised Jesus Christ. Surprisingly, this caused no problems with the Hays Office anti-blasphemy brigade, or with any other religious groups. The characterisation, the finest of Hunter’s distinguished career, is honest, intensely moving, and never over the top. As Cambreau/ Christ, Hunter looks just as holy as Robert Powell in the later Jesus of Nazareth. No, what saw Strange Cargo part-banned in some American states was the implication of some of the dialogue. Coming hot on the heels of Clark complaining over George Cukor calling him ‘dear’, here we have Gable, the tough he-man convict, addressing his cohorts as ‘sweetheart’. Also, for the undisputed homophobe who was absolutely paranoid about anyone thinking him less than 100 per cent übermensch, there is a homoerotic scene where he almost kisses Hunter on the mouth, albeit reverently.

  The action takes place in an uncivilised penal colony ‘off the coast of one of the Guianas’, a hell hole where past, present and future are one. The toughest prisoner here is Verne (Gable), a thief who now believes the only thing worth stealing is his freedom. He has bungled so many escapes that the Governor has put him to work outside the prison walls - this way he will see that the jungle beyond is impenetrable. On the wharf he watches hard-bitten chanteuse Julie (Joan) - when she tosses away a half-smoked cigarette he retrieves it, sniffs and licks it, then finishes smoking it. Julie is currently being lusted over by obnoxious stool-pigeon Monsieur Pig (Lorre), who is not put off when she snarls, ‘Men die all the time and pigs live on and on - and you’d think that their own smell would kill them!’

  Neither is Julie any more sympathetic towards Verne, engaging him in bitchy banter that only makes him more intent on having her. It matters little to him that he will end up in solitary confinement for failing to return to the prison with the rest of the work-party: one night with this fire-brand will make the suffering worthwhile. What he does not know is that Cambreau has latched on to the work-party to make up the numbers - emerging from nowhere, and knowing everything about the disciples he will soon gather about him. They, however, know nothing about him save that his teachings make sense and his prophesies always come true.

  Verne sneaks into Julie’s room and after more sniping she changes her mind about giving him a good time - he reminds her too much of her former lover, so she shops him to the authorities, a ruse which backfires when both are arrested. Fraternisation with convicts is against colonial law and Julie is given mere hours to vacate the island. Cut to the prison, where Cambreau addresses his flock, which includes top-dog Moll (Albert Dekker), who makes little secret of the fact that his love for pretty blond youngster Dufond (John Arledge), is more than brotherly - mirroring the pair’s relationship away from the screen. (Clark hated working with both actors, no doubt terrified of his own ‘secret’ emerging. In 1968, cross-dresser Dekker, after being outed by the tabloids, was found hanging from his shower-rail, wearing women’s lingerie.) Verne grabs the Bible, and drawls a quote, ‘So, God created Man in his own image. How d’you like that? Take a look at me. Do I look like a god to you?’

  When Cambreau learns that Moll and Dufond are planning an escape and that several others are contributing towards the cost of the boat waiting beyond the jungle, he pays for Verne and himself to accompany them. Moll, however, does not want him along and bashes him (Dekker later claimed he would have loved to have done this to the homophobic Gable for real), and leaves him for dead. The prisoners make a break for it, but Cambreau has effected a miracle: Verne recovers from his life-threatening injuries, finds the map that Cambreau has drawn in the back of his Bible, and he too escapes. Before catching up with the others, he must find Julie. She is desperately trying to raise funds to leave the island and Pig offers to help in exchange for her favours. ‘You’re the one man in the world I’d never get low enough to touch,’ she tells him, settling for assistance from the only slightly less odious official, Marfeu (Bernard Nedell) - long enough to attempt to kill him and abscond with his cash. Something that is prevented by Cambreau’s disembodied voice, ‘Not that way, Julie!’

  Verne rescues Julie, but still treats her like dirt, comparing her with the cheap food she feeds him: ‘Garbage, but good enough for a man when he’s starving. You’ll do, baby. This is no time to be particular!’ This of course was the Gable philosophy - treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen. A woman did not have to be attractive to end up in his clutches, which from the point of view of overzealous female fans meant that, given the circumstances, Gable was not out of their reach, either!

  Still thinking him a louse, Julie leaves with Verne and they catch up with Cambreau and the others at the shore, their numbers reduced, just as Cambreau predicted, by a series of incidents in the jungle. A chance remark that Julie is here solely for the crew’s gratification sees Verne and Moll scrapping for supremacy. Verne wins, naturally, and assumes the role of captain while Julie stands, like Garbo in the closing scene from Queen Christina, spread-eagled before the mainsail as they embark. When she brazenly kisses Verne, one of the men gruffs, ‘What good can ever come from a man like that, a woman like that?’ Cambreau is non-judgemental: he sees her as Mary Magdalene, maybe even the Holy Virgin, and philosophically replies, ‘I’ve heard of it happening before. Why can’t it happen again?’

  Cambreau’s philospophy - that others will die during the struggle for survival - comes true. In a fit of pique, one man throws the water barrel into the sea, then gets eaten by a shark while retrieving it. Dufond goes insane and Moll slaps him, accidentally killing him. With nothing left to live for, he tests the barrel’s contents to see if it contains salt water. It does, and he chokes to death on his swollen tongue.

  The survivors reach the mainland to find Pig and the Colony Governor are there first not having had to risk the jungle. Verne pays a fisherman to take them to Cuba, but Julie changes her mind about going with him - she blames herself for his being on the run and considers herself unworthy of the risks he is taking. Verne, Cambreau and the fisherman set sail as a storm is brewing. Cambreau knows his mission is nearing completion, that it is time for him to move on and help others. As the rain lashes the deck he engages in a battle of words with Verne, the Doubting Thomas - begging him to kill him, knowing of course that he is immortal.

  Verne knocks him overboard, where he floats, cruciform, before being rescued - and Verne, now aware Cambreau/Christ has died for him, bursts into tears and wants to kiss him, but instead clutches him to his breast. Clark had little difficulty crying for this scene. Firstly it was raining heavily and therefore his tears could not actually be seen and secondly, he believed any man would have been overcome with emotion upon meeting Jesus Christ. The actual kiss was filmed, but the footage destroyed on the orders of the Hays Office.

  The film ends as Verne and Julie are reunited, and with him giving himself up. At last he has found honour and will serve the remainder of his sentence because he knows the woman he loves will be waiting for him on the outside. And as Cambreau exits the scenario just as mysteriously as he arrived, the fisherman makes the sign of the Cross.

  A massive row erupted between Joan Crawford and Louis B. Mayer when, at the film’s preview in April 1940, she was ‘mortified’ to see that he had contravened the terms of her contract by placing Gable’s name above hers in the credits. Clark had demanded this as part of his contract. By the time of the première, two weeks later, Mayer had effected a compromise: their names were printed side by side, but in alphabetical order, which effectively meant that Joan had won!

  Prior to this, another battle of egos raged between Mayer and David Selznick over Clark’s billing for Gone With The Wind. Selnick had promised him that his name would appear above the film’s title, but now insisted on this being replaced by his own. Clark had no objection to this, so long as his name appeared above Viv
ien Leigh’s. Initially, he wanted nothing to do with the Atlanta première scheduled for 15 December, even when told that his not being there would affect the box-office. His beef was that while the city dignitaries and every white person involved with the film had been invited to the event, to be preceded by a parade through the streets, Hattie McDaniel and the black cast had not. Owing to Georgia’s absurd segregation laws, they would be compelled to stay in blacks-only hotels, and barred from the theatre.

  Clark and Carole, like Tallulah Bankhead, had already caused controversy by hiring black staff to run their homes, and McDaniel was of course a dear friend. He was eventually persuaded to attend by Carole, but by now his already low esteem of Selznick and Mayer had plummeted. He refused to travel to Atlanta with the Selznick party, instead chartering a plane for himself and Carole, Otto Winkler and Howard Strickling. Then there was a last-minute hitch when he threatened to pull out of the première because Victor Fleming’s name had been omitted from the programme, allegedly on Selznick’s orders on account of Fleming’s anti-Semitic ravings - though in this respect Clark had been no less culpable.

  As the Governor of Georgia had declared the weekend of the première a state holiday, with an estimated 500,000 visitors flocking to the city to see the stars - and with Clark as their clear favourite - he had no option but to capitulate, though even then it was a forced effort. Earlier in the day he had paid tribute to the original scriptwriter, Sidney Howard, who had died in an accident in the August. Now, a sound system was set up outside the theatre so that his speech - all 30 seconds of it - could be relayed to the vast crowd. He was here, he said, as just another spectator, and wished to be treated accordingly. This night, he concluded, belonged not to him but to Margaret Mitchell and the people of Atlanta. Neither did he sit through the whole 222-minute film. He was introduced to Mitchell just before curtain-up, and the two of them retired to the ladies room - locking the door behind them - until the interval. What happened there has never been made public.