They brought in genuine sled
dogs, who must have been a bit confused by the weather if
nothing else. Still, it just goes to show how you can fool
people when they are watching a screen. I remember during
a scene in "The Miracle" where a make a dramatic
dash on a horse through a field in which trees blow up.
"Don't worry, Rodge," they said. "We won't
blow up the first tree until you've passed it." Naturally,
it blew up the second I drew level with it. The horsereared
up; I lost my stirrups. Clinging on for all I was worth
I was genuinely yelling for help. The horse went crazy for
half a minute before it calmed down. Rarely have I been
so frightened. Next day we watched the sequence on film
- without a sound track. "Gee" said the director,
"that's fellow's braver than Errol Flynn!".
The director of that sequence
was Gordie Douglas, who was one fondly puttingof the real
Hollywood time-servers. He'd gone to California as a writer
when he was 21 and worked for Hal Roach on the "Our
Gang" comedies and "Laurel and Hardy" films.
At that time there was life in the film capital and the
place was full of practical jokers. Gordie recalls a famous
producer who bought up a New York writer and called him
to Hollywood. He met him at the plane with open arms, took
him to his home, introduced him to his wife Mary and feted
him with a lavish dinner. While the producer was out of
the way Mary made it clear to her guest that she fancied
him more than somewhat anf if he didn't do something about
it she would make it bad for him with her husband. The writer,
forced into a difficult position, obliged later that night
when the producer was called back to the studio. The next
day Mary was on the phone indicating she wanted a repeat
performance - or there'd be trouble. Meanwhile the cuckcolded
producer was lavishing praise and attention on the young
writer - to his acute embarrassment. Every day for two weeks
Mary was on to the writer. "More, more, more - or else."
One day she even rang him while he was in her husband's
office. She disguised her voice and the producer innocently
passed over the phone to the writer. She didn't miss a day
and all the time the young fellow was feeling guiltier and
mad with anguish. It wouldn't have been so bad but for the
producer treating him like an adopted son.
After a fornight the writer
and the producer were sitting out by the swimming pool,
sipping mint juleps and discussing the world in general.
The producer, fondly putting a hand on the writer's shoulder,
said: "You know, if there's one thing in the world
that's greater than the relationship between a man and a
woman it's the relationship between two men like us. I feel
I have absolute faith and trust in you. I love you, not
in a homosexual way, but I love you and respect you as a
person. For one thing, I know I could trust you with my
wife". The writer was almost at the point of histerics.
He'd never felt so rotten and mean in his life. All he could
do was to cover his face and look away. The producer continued:
"I mean it. I mean really trust you with my wife. Not
the girl I've been paying 50 dollars day to pretend she's
my wife..." One of Gordie's favourite tricks was to
give a cocktail party for a newcomer to Hollywood. He would
tell his victim the party was starting an hour later than
it was. When all the others had arrived Gordie would call
for silence and explain that the guest of honour was a friend
of his - but he had just got out of jail for manslaughter.
Gordie would say he was a marvellous, sweet, kind, gentle
person until he had a couple of drinks. Then he was liable
to become a maniac. So...
The victime arrives. Most
people avoid him and no one offers him a drink. When he
finally gets one the rest stay even further away from him.
When he gets his second drink half the people leave the
party altogether. Puzzled at th exodus, the victim has a
third drink - and all the rest rush out too; leaving only
himself, Gordie and wife to sit down at a table prepared
for 40 people. Gordie shakes his head and says: "I
don't know what they don't like about you. I've got a feeling
you're not going to get on in this town."
The first time the marriage
between Dorothy and myself ran into trouble was during the
making of The Alaskans series. In fact, the more
I think about it the whole of that series was a disaster.
It was also uncomfortable and frequently dangerous. Most
of all I grew to hate the main street they mocked up; and
when there was a studio fire in that street I even went
so far as to try to impede the fire department from getting
to it. Which didn't exactly endear me to my bosses. For
many shots they were using aeroplane engines rigged up to
simulate snow storms and gales. The "snow" was
salt and gypsum and having that blown in your face by wind
machines and planes engines is no fun. What was worse, the
camera crew had gauze masks to protect them (and they were
standing behind the camera) and we the actors had to take
the full blast. At the end of every day we had our eyes
washed out and frequently the eyes were scratched from the
gypsum. I hated that main street! Day after day of driving
up it with a team of dogs who where so confused by the phoney
scenery that they spent longer than usual relieving themselves
up against the fake pine trees. And when we weren't being
blasted by gypsum and salt we'd swelter in our heavy furs
under the 120 degrees of Californian sun, trying all the
time to look as though we were freezing. But the discomforts
were as nothing compared with the emotional bother I got
into. Dorothy was over there frequently and after one night
we were returning home from a cocktail party and she said:
"You're in love with somebody else." "What
do toy mean?" I asked, all innocent. "You keep
shouting her name in your sleep, "she said. "What
name do I shout?" I said, interested. "Dorothy"
she said. "That's your name!". "You know
very well (or words to that effect) that you never call
me Dorothy. You call me Dot!" The entire scene ended
up with me confessing that I was in love with my co-star
on The Alaskans, Dorothy Provine. Dot, understandably
furious, stormed back to England. Well, eventually that
came to an end. But there was a lot of other trouble before
I did the run in Maverick. And I was the one who
lifted the lid on it.
They knifed me very gently
afetr a magnificent luncheon laid on for visiting British
Embassy officials. I had finished The Alaskans and
was anticipating making a picture with Clint Walker. Jack
Warner and Bill Orr (who ran the TV sideof Warners) strolled
along with me from the executive dining room. Bill casually
said to me: "Oh by the way, you'd better come into
wardrobe tomorrow for fittings." "What for?"
said I. "Maverick" he said. "What
do you mean: Maverick?". "Well, James Garner has
left - and you're taking over." I flipped in sheer
anger. I had been promised other things and I knew the scripts
for Maverick were reaching an all-time low because of a
writer's strike. The time had come, I decided, to devote
myself to a little therapy. Warner Brothers, television
and the entire motion picture industry could do to themselves
whatever their imagination allowed. I went to Las Vegas
which is a very good rest home for people on the edge of
a nervous breakdown. There are delightful therapeutic things
one can do with one's fingers, like playing blackjack and
roulette and dice.
Almost daily there would
be cables and phone calls from the studios, all of which
I completely ignored. The studio suspended me and I played
merrily on in Las Vegas. Finally, Jack Warner called me
personally and my nerve cracked. I went back. He said the
reason I had to be in Maverick was that the sponsor
had agreed to continue the series on their air-time if I
was in. Warner thought I was insane when he found I was
sticking out for more money. It was the scripts, I explained.
The writer's strike had led the studios to juggle all sorts
of ways. An old Bronco script would interchange with
an Alaskans or Maverick. In some cases even
the dialogue stayed unchanged.
More arguments were to come.
Directors wanted to play Maverick straight and I
said they must be mad. Maverick was a comedy. In this unhappy
atmosphere I waded my way through the episodes. But I could
see daylight, there wasn't long for the series to run. With
some horror I heard rumours to the effect that they were
going to make a series about an Englishman who becomes a
cowboy and I was in line for the part. That was enough.
I asked for and got my release. With Dorothy (Squire) I
returned to Europe where there was a pile of film scripts
waiting for me to choose from. Many of them were for French
and Italian films and nearly all were bad. Until I came
upon one that struck me as being hysterically funny. It
was about Romulus and Remus, the founding of Rome and The
Rape of the Sabines. It read like an extremely hilarious
piece of historical nonsense. I signed, discovering to my
horror on the first day of shooting that the director considered
it a drama. But I didn't let it bother me, I still hammed
it up while everyone else played it straight. The entire
film was an appalling mess, but the one good thing to emerge
from it was I met Luisa...
