Once Upon a Time in Hollywood
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Synopsis
Narrated by Jennifer Jason Leigh
Quentin Tarantino’s long-awaited first work of fiction — at once hilarious, delicious, and brutal — is the always surprising, sometimes shocking new novel based on his Academy Award- winning film.
RICK DALTON – Once he had his own TV series, but now Rick’s a washed-up villain-of-the week drowning his sorrows in whiskey sours. Will a phone call from Rome save his fate or seal it?
CLIFF BOOTH – Rick’s stunt double, and the most infamous man on any movie set because he’s the only one there who might have gotten away with murder. . . .
SHARON TATE – She left Texas to chase a movie-star dream, and found it. Sharon’s salad days are now spent on Cielo Drive, high in the Hollywood Hills.
CHARLES MANSON – The ex-con’s got a bunch of zonked-out hippies thinking he’s their spiritual leader, but he’d trade it all to be a rock ‘n’ roll star.
HOLLYWOOD 1969 – YOU SHOULDA BEEN THERE
Release date: June 29, 2021
Publisher: Harper Perennial
Print pages: 224
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Once Upon a Time in Hollywood
Quentin Tarantino
The buzzer on Marvin Schwarz’s desk Dictaphone makes a noise. The William Morris agent’s finger holds the lever down on the box. “Is that my ten-thirty you’re buzzing me about, Miss Himmelsteen?”
“Yes it is, Mr. Schwarz,” his secretary’s voice pipes out of the tiny speaker. “Mr. Dalton is waiting outside.”
Marvin pushes down the lever again. “I’m ready when you are, Miss Himmelsteen.”
When the door to Marvin’s office opens, his young secretary, Miss Himmelsteen, steps in first. She’s a twenty-one-year-old woman of the hippie persuasion. She sports a white miniskirt that shows off her long tan legs and wears her long brown hair in Pocahontas-style pigtails that hang down each side of her head. The handsome forty-two-year-old actor Rick Dalton, and his de rigueur glistening wet brown pompadour, follow behind her.
Marvin’s smile grows wide as he stands up from the chair behind his desk. Miss Himmelsteen tries to do the introductions, but Marvin cuts her off. “Miss Himmelsteen, since I just finished watching a Rick Dalton fuckin’ film festival, no need to introduce this man to me.” Marvin crosses the distance between them, sticking out his hand for the cowboy actor to shake. “Put ’er there, Rick.”
Rick smiles and gives the agent’s hand a big pumping shake. “Rick Dalton. Thank you very much, Mr. Schwartz, for taking the time to meet me.”
Marvin corrects him. “It’s Schwarz, not Schwartz.”
Jesus Christ, I’m fuckin’ this whole thing up already, Rick thinks.
“Goddammit to hell . . . I’m sorry about that . . . Mr. Sch-WARZ.”
The buzzer on Marvin Schwarz’s desk Dictaphone makes a noise. The William Morris agent’s finger holds the lever down on the box. “Is that my ten-thirty you’re buzzing me about, Miss Himmelsteen?”
“Yes it is, Mr. Schwarz,” his secretary’s voice pipes out of the tiny speaker. “Mr. Dalton is waiting outside.”
Marvin pushes down the lever again. “I’m ready when you are, Miss Himmelsteen.”
When the door to Marvin’s office opens, his young secretary, Miss Himmelsteen, steps in first. She’s a twenty-one-year-old woman of the hippie persuasion. She sports a white miniskirt that shows off her long tan legs and wears her long brown hair in Pocahontas-style pigtails that hang down each side of her head. The handsome forty-two-year-old actor Rick Dalton, and his de rigueur glistening wet brown pompadour, follow behind her.
Marvin’s smile grows wide as he stands up from the chair behind his desk. Miss Himmelsteen tries to do the introductions, but Marvin cuts her off. “Miss Himmelsteen, since I just finished watching a Rick Dalton fuckin’ film festival, no need to introduce this man to me.” Marvin crosses the distance between them, sticking out his hand for the cowboy actor to shake. “Put ’er there, Rick.”
Rick smiles and gives the agent’s hand a big pumping shake. “Rick Dalton. Thank you very much, Mr. Schwartz, for taking the time to meet me.”
Marvin corrects him. “It’s Schwarz, not Schwartz.”
Jesus Christ, I’m fuckin’ this whole thing up already, Rick thinks.
“Goddammit to hell . . . I’m sorry about that . . . Mr. Sch-WARZ.”
As Mr. Schwarz does a final shake of the hand, he says, “Call me Marvin.”
“Marvin, call me Rick.”
“Rick . . .”
They let go of each other’s hand.
“Can Miss Himmelsteen get you a tasty beverage?”
Rick waves the offer away. “No, I’m fine.”
Marvin insists. “Are you sure, nothing? Coffee, Coke, Pepsi, Simba?”
“Alright,” Rick says. “Maybe a cup of coffee.”
“Good.” Clapping the actor on his shoulder, Marvin turns to his young girl Friday. “Miss Himmelsteen, would you be so kind as to get my friend Rick here a cup of coffee, and I’ll have one myself.”
The young lady nods her head in the affirmative and crosses the length of the office. As she starts to close the door behind her, Marvin yells after her, “Oh, and none of that Maxwell House rotgut they got in the break room. Go to Rex’s office,” Marvin instructs. “He’s always got the classiest coffee—but none of that Turkish shit,” Marvin warns.
“Yes, sir,” Miss Himmelsteen answers, then turns to Rick. “How do you take your coffee, Mr. Dalton?”
Rick turns to her and says, “Haven’t you heard? Black is beautiful.”
Marvin lets out a Klaxon-like guffaw, while Miss Himmelsteen covers her mouth with her hand as she giggles. Before his secretary can close the door behind her, Marvin yells out, “Oh, and Miss Himmelsteen, short of my wife and kids dead on the highway, hold all my calls. In fact, if my wife and kids are dead, well, they’ll all be just as dead thirty minutes from now, so hold all my calls.”
The agent gestures for the actor to sit on one of two leather sofas that face each other, a glass-top coffee table in between, and Rick makes himself comfortable.
“First things first,” the agent says. “I send you greetings from my wife, Mary Alice Schwarz! We had a Rick Dalton double feature in our screening room last night.”
“Wow. That’s both flattering and embarrassing,” Rick says. “What did ya see?”
The buzzer on Marvin Schwarz’s desk Dictaphone makes a noise. The William Morris agent’s finger holds the lever down on the box. “Is that my ten-thirty you’re buzzing me about, Miss Himmelsteen?”
“Yes it is, Mr. Schwarz,” his secretary’s voice pipes out of the tiny speaker. “Mr. Dalton is waiting outside.”
Marvin pushes down the lever again. “I’m ready when you are, Miss Himmelsteen.”
When the door to Marvin’s office opens, his young secretary, Miss Himmelsteen, steps in first. She’s a twenty-one-year-old woman of the hippie persuasion. She sports a white miniskirt that shows off her long tan legs and wears her long brown hair in Pocahontas-style pigtails that hang down each side of her head. The handsome forty-two-year-old actor Rick Dalton, and his de rigueur glistening wet brown pompadour, follow behind her.
Marvin’s smile grows wide as he stands up from the chair behind his desk. Miss Himmelsteen tries to do the introductions, but Marvin cuts her off. “Miss Himmelsteen, since I just finished watching a Rick Dalton fuckin’ film festival, no need to introduce this man to me.” Marvin crosses the distance between them, sticking out his hand for the cowboy actor to shake. “Put ’er there, Rick.”
Rick smiles and gives the agent’s hand a big pumping shake. “Rick Dalton. Thank you very much, Mr. Schwartz, for taking the time to meet me.”
Marvin corrects him. “It’s Schwarz, not Schwartz.”
Jesus Christ, I’m fuckin’ this whole thing up already, Rick thinks.
“Goddammit to hell . . . I’m sorry about that . . . Mr. Sch-WARZ.”
As Mr. Schwarz does a final shake of the hand, he says, “Call me Marvin.”
“Marvin, call me Rick.”
“Rick . . .”
They let go of each other’s hand.
“Can Miss Himmelsteen get you a tasty beverage?”
Rick waves the offer away. “No, I’m fine.”
Marvin insists. “Are you sure, nothing? Coffee, Coke, Pepsi, Simba?”
“Alright,” Rick says. “Maybe a cup of coffee.”
“Good.” Clapping the actor on his shoulder, Marvin turns to his young girl Friday. “Miss Himmelsteen, would you be so kind as to get my friend Rick here a cup of coffee, and I’ll have one myself.”
The young lady nods her head in the affirmative and crosses the length of the office. As she starts to close the door behind her, Marvin yells after her, “Oh, and none of that Maxwell House rotgut they got in the break room. Go to Rex’s office,” Marvin instructs. “He’s always got the classiest coffee—but none of that Turkish shit,” Marvin warns.
“Yes, sir,” Miss Himmelsteen answers, then turns to Rick. “How do you take your coffee, Mr. Dalton?”
Rick turns to her and says, “Haven’t you heard? Black is beautiful.”
Marvin lets out a Klaxon-like guffaw, while Miss Himmelsteen covers her mouth with her hand as she giggles. Before his secretary can close the door behind her, Marvin yells out, “Oh, and Miss Himmelsteen, short of my wife and kids dead on the highway, hold all my calls. In fact, if my wife and kids are dead, well, they’ll all be just as dead thirty minutes from now, so hold all my calls.”
The agent gestures for the actor to sit on one of two leather sofas that face each other, a glass-top coffee table in between, and Rick makes himself comfortable.
“First things first,” the agent says. “I send you greetings from my wife, Mary Alice Schwarz! We had a Rick Dalton double feature in our screening room last night.”
“Wow. That’s both flattering and embarrassing,” Rick says. “What did ya see?”
“Film prints of Tanner and The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey.”
“Well, them are two of the good ones,” Rick says. “McCluskey was directed by Paul Wendkos. He’s my favorite of all my directors. He made Gidget. I was supposed to be in that. Tommy Laughlin got my part.” But then he magnanimously waves it away. “But that’s okay, I like Tommy. He got me in the first big play I ever did.”
“Really?” Marvin asks. “You’ve done a lot of theater?”
“Not much,” he says. “I get bored doing the same shit again and again.”
“So Paul Wendkos is your favorite director, huh?” Marvin asks.
“Yeah, I started out with him in my early days. I’m in his Cliff Robertson picture, Battle of the Coral Sea. You can see me and Tommy Laughlin hangin’ out in the back of the submarine the whole damn picture.”
Marvin makes one of his declarative industry statements: “Paul-fuckin’-Wendkos. Underrated action specialist.”
“Very true,” Rick agrees. “And when I landed Bounty Law, he came on and directed about seven or eight episodes.”
“So,” Rick asks, fishing for a compliment, “I hope the Rick Dalton double feature wasn’t too painful for you and the Mrs.?”
Marvin laughs. “Painful? Stop. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.” Marvin continues, “So Mary Alice and I watched Tanner. Mary Alice doesn’t like the violence in modern movies these days, so I saved McCluskey to watch by myself after she went to bed.”
Then there’s a small tap on the office door, just before the miniskirt-wearing Miss Himmelsteen enters the office, carrying two cups of steaming coffee for Rick and Marvin. She carefully hands the hot beverages to the two gentlemen.
“This is from Rex’s office, right?”
“Rex said you owe him one of your cigars.”
The agent snorts. “That cheap Jew bastard, the only thing I owe him is a hard time.”
Everybody laughs.
Sch-WARZ.”
As Mr. Schwarz does a final shake of the hand, he says, “Call me Marvin.”
“Marvin, call me Rick.”
“Rick . . .”
They let go of each other’s hand.
“Can Miss Himmelsteen get you a tasty beverage?”
Rick waves the offer away. “No, I’m fine.”
Marvin insists. “Are you sure, nothing? Coffee, Coke, Pepsi, Simba?”
“Alright,” Rick says. “Maybe a cup of coffee.”
“Good.” Clapping the actor on his shoulder, Marvin turns to his young girl Friday. “Miss Himmelsteen, would you be so kind as to get my friend Rick here a cup of coffee, and I’ll have one myself.”
The young lady nods her head in the affirmative and crosses the length of the office. As she starts to close the door behind her, Marvin yells after her, “Oh, and none of that Maxwell House rotgut they got in the break room. Go to Rex’s office,” Marvin instructs. “He’s always got the classiest coffee—but none of that Turkish shit,” Marvin warns.
“Yes, sir,” Miss Himmelsteen answers, then turns to Rick. “How do you take your coffee, Mr. Dalton?”
Rick turns to her and says, “Haven’t you heard? Black is beautiful.”
Marvin lets out a Klaxon-like guffaw, while Miss Himmelsteen covers her mouth with her hand as she giggles. Before his secretary can close the door behind her, Marvin yells out, “Oh, and Miss Himmelsteen, short of my wife and kids dead on the highway, hold all my calls. In fact, if my wife and kids are dead, well, they’ll all be just as dead thirty minutes from now, so hold all my calls.”
The agent gestures for the actor to sit on one of two leather sofas that face each other, a glass-top coffee table in between, and Rick makes himself comfortable.
“First things first,” the agent says. “I send you greetings from my wife, Mary Alice Schwarz! We had a Rick Dalton double feature in our screening room last night.”
“Wow. That’s both flattering and embarrassing,” Rick says. “What did ya see?”
“Film prints of Tanner and The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey.”
“Well, them are two of the good ones,” Rick says. “McCluskey was directed by Paul Wendkos. He’s my favorite of all my directors. He made Gidget. I was supposed to be in that. Tommy Laughlin got my part.” But then he magnanimously waves it away. “But that’s okay, I like Tommy. He got me in the first big play I ever did.”
“Really?” Marvin asks. “You’ve done a lot of theater?”
“Not much,” he says. “I get bored doing the same shit again and again.”
“So Paul Wendkos is your favorite director, huh?” Marvin asks.
“Yeah, I started out with him in my early days. I’m in his Cliff Robertson picture, Battle of the Coral Sea. You can see me and Tommy Laughlin hangin’ out in the back of the submarine the whole damn picture.”
Marvin makes one of his declarative industry statements: “Paul-fuckin’-Wendkos. Underrated action specialist.”
“Very true,” Rick agrees. “And when I landed Bounty Law, he came on and directed about seven or eight episodes.”
“So,” Rick asks, fishing for a compliment, “I hope the Rick Dalton double feature wasn’t too painful for you and the Mrs.?”
Marvin laughs. “Painful? Stop. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.” Marvin continues, “So Mary Alice and I watched Tanner. Mary Alice doesn’t like the violence in modern movies these days, so I saved McCluskey to watch by myself after she went to bed.”
Then there’s a small tap on the office door, just before the miniskirt-wearing Miss Himmelsteen enters the office, carrying two cups of steaming coffee for Rick and Marvin. She carefully hands the hot beverages to the two gentlemen.
“This is from Rex’s office, right?”
“Rex said you owe him one of your cigars.”
The agent snorts. “That cheap Jew bastard, the only thing I owe him is a hard time.”
Everybody laughs.
“Thank you, Miss Himmelsteen; that will be all for now.”
She exits, leaving the two men alone to discuss the entertainment business, Rick Dalton’s career, and, more important, his future.
“Where was I?” Marvin asks. “Oh yeah—violence in modern movies. Mary Alice doesn’t like it. But she loves westerns. Always has. We saw westerns all through our courtship. Watching westerns together is one of our favorite things to do, and we thoroughly enjoyed Tanner.”
“Awww, that’s nice,” Rick says.
“Now when we do these double features,” Marvin explains, “by the last three reels of the first film, Mary Alice is asleep in my lap. But for Tanner, she made it to just before the last reel—which was nine-thirty—which is pretty good for Mary Alice.”
As Marvin explains to Rick the movie-viewing habits of the happy couple, Rick takes a sip of the hot coffee.
Hey, that’s good, the actor thinks. This Rex fella does have classy coffee.
Marvin continues, “Movie’s over, she goes to bed. I open up a box of Havana’s, pour myself a cognac, and watch the second movie by myself.”
Rick takes another sip of Rex’s delicious coffee.
Marvin points at the coffee cup. “Good stuff, huh?”
“What,” Rick asks, “the coffee?”
“No, the pastrami. Of course the coffee,” Marvin says, with Catskill timing.
“It’s fuckin’ sensational,” Rick agrees. “Where does he get it?”
“One of these delicatessens here in Beverly Hills, but he won’t say which one,” Marvin says, then continues with Mary Alice’s viewing habits. “This morning after breakfast and after I leave for the office, the projectionist, Greg, comes back and screens the last reel so she can see how the picture ends. And that’s our movie-watching routine. We’re very happy about it. And she was very much looking forward to seeing how Tanner ends.”
Then Marvin adds, “However, she’s already figured out you’re gonna hafta kill your father, Ralph Meeker, before it’s all over.”
“Well, yeah, that’s the problem with the movie,” Rick says. “It ain’t if I kill the domineering patriarch, it’s when.
And it ain’t if Michael Callan, the sensitive brother, kills me—it’s when.”
Marvin agrees. “True. But both of us thought you and Ralph Meeker matched up pretty well together.”
“Yeah, me too,” Rick replies. “We did make a good father-and-son team. That fuckin’ Michael Callan looked like he was adopted. But with me, you could believe Ralph was my old man.”
“Well, the reason you matched up so well together was you two shared a similar dialect.”
Rick laughs. “Especially when compared to fuckin’ Michael Callan, who sounded like he should be surfing in Malibu.”
Okay, Marvin thinks, that’s the second time Rick has put down his Tanner co-star Michael Callan. That’s not a good sign. It suggests stinginess in spirit. It suggests a blamer. But Marvin keeps these thoughts to himself.
“I thought Ralph Meeker was sensational,” Rick tells the agent. “The best damn actor I ever worked with, and I’ve worked with Edward G. Robinson! He was also in two of the best Bounty Law’s.”
Marvin continues recounting his Rick Dalton double feature from the night before. “Which brings us to The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey! What a picture! So much fun.” He pantomimes shooting a machine gun. “All the shooting! All the killing!” Marvin asks, “How many Nazi bastards you kill in that picture? A hundred? A hundred and fifty?”
Rick laughs. “I never counted, but a hundred and fifty sounds right.”
Marvin curses them to himself. “Fuckin’ Nazi bastards . . . That’s you operating the flamethrower, ain’t it?”
“You bet your sweet ass it is,” Rick says. “And that’s one shit-fuck crazy weapon you do not want to be on the wrong side of, boy oh boy, let me tell you. I practiced with that dragon three hours a day for two weeks. Not just so I’d look good in the picture, but because I was shit scared of the damn thing, to tell you the truth.”
“Extraordinary,” says the impressed agent.
“You know, it was just sheer luck I got my role,” Rick tells Marvin. “Originally, Fabian had my part. Then eight days before shootin’ he breaks his shoulder doin’ a Chapter One“Call Me Marvin”
The buzzer on Marvin Schwarz’s desk Dictaphone makes a noise. The William Morris agent’s finger holds the lever down on the box. “Is that my ten-thirty you’re buzzing me about, Miss Himmelsteen?”
“Yes it is, Mr. Schwarz,” his secretary’s voice pipes out of the tiny speaker. “Mr. Dalton is waiting outside.”
Marvin pushes down the lever again. “I’m ready when you are, Miss Himmelsteen.”
When the door to Marvin’s office opens, his young secretary, Miss Himmelsteen, steps in first. She’s a twenty-one-year-old woman of the hippie persuasion. She sports a white miniskirt that shows off her long tan legs and wears her long brown hair in Pocahontas-style pigtails that hang down each side of her head. The handsome forty-two-year-old actor Rick Dalton, and his de rigueur glistening wet brown pompadour, follow behind her.
Marvin’s smile grows wide as he stands up from the chair behind his desk. Miss Himmelsteen tries to do the introductions, but Marvin cuts her off. “Miss Himmelsteen, since I just finished watching a Rick Dalton fuckin’ film festival, no need to introduce this man to me.” Marvin crosses the distance between them, sticking out his hand for the cowboy actor to shake. “Put ’er there, Rick.”
Rick smiles and gives the agent’s hand a big pumping shake. “Rick Dalton. Thank you very much, Mr. Schwartz, for taking the time to meet me.”
Marvin corrects him. “It’s Schwarz, not Schwartz.”
Jesus Christ, I’m fuckin’ this whole thing up already, Rick thinks.
“Goddammit to hell . . . I’m sorry about that . . . Mr. Sch-WARZ.”
As Mr. Schwarz does a final shake of the hand, he says, “Call me Marvin.”
“Marvin, call me Rick.”
“Rick . . .”
They let go of each other’s hand.
“Can Miss Himmelsteen get you a tasty beverage?”
Rick waves the offer away. “No, I’m fine.”
Marvin insists. “Are you sure, nothing? Coffee, Coke, Pepsi, Simba?”
“Alright,” Rick says. “Maybe a cup of coffee.”
“Good.” Clapping the actor on his shoulder, Marvin turns to his young girl Friday. “Miss Himmelsteen, would you be so kind as to get my friend Rick here a cup of coffee, and I’ll have one myself.”
The young lady nods her head in the affirmative and crosses the length of the office. As she starts to close the door behind her, Marvin yells after her, “Oh, and none of that Maxwell House rotgut they got in the break room. Go to Rex’s office,” Marvin instructs. “He’s always got the classiest coffee—but none of that Turkish shit,” Marvin warns.
“Yes, sir,” Miss Himmelsteen answers, then turns to Rick. “How do you take your coffee, Mr. Dalton?”
Rick turns to her and says, “Haven’t you heard? Black is beautiful.”
Marvin lets out a Klaxon-like guffaw, while Miss Himmelsteen covers her mouth with her hand as she giggles. Before his secretary can close the door behind her, Marvin yells out, “Oh, and Miss Himmelsteen, short of my wife and kids dead on the highway, hold all my calls. In fact, if my wife and kids are dead, well, they’ll all be just as dead thirty minutes from now, so hold all my calls.”
The agent gestures for the actor to sit on one of two leather sofas that face each other, a glass-top coffee table in between, and Rick makes himself comfortable.
“First things first,” the agent says. “I send you greetings from my wife, Mary Alice Schwarz! We had a Rick Dalton double feature in our screening room last night.”
“Wow. That’s both flattering and embarrassing,” Rick says. “What did ya see?”
“Film prints of Tanner and The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey.”
“Well, them are two of the good ones,” Rick says. “McCluskey was directed by Paul Wendkos. He’s my favorite of all my directors. He made Gidget. I was supposed to be in that. Tommy Laughlin got my part.” But then he magnanimously waves it away. “But that’s okay, I like Tommy. He got me in the first big play I ever did.”
“Really?” Marvin asks. “You’ve done a lot of theater?”
“Not much,” he says. “I get bored doing the same shit again and again.”
“So Paul Wendkos is your favorite director, huh?” Marvin asks.
“Yeah, I started out with him in my early days. I’m in his Cliff Robertson picture, Battle of the Coral Sea. You can see me and Tommy Laughlin hangin’ out in the back of the submarine the whole damn picture.”
Marvin makes one of his declarative industry statements: “Paul-fuckin’-Wendkos. Underrated action specialist.”
“Very true,” Rick agrees. “And when I landed Bounty Law, he came on and directed about seven or eight episodes.”
“So,” Rick asks, fishing for a compliment, “I hope the Rick Dalton double feature wasn’t too painful for you and the Mrs.?”
Marvin laughs. “Painful? Stop. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.” Marvin continues, “So Mary Alice and I watched Tanner. Mary Alice doesn’t like the violence in modern movies these days, so I saved McCluskey to watch by myself after she went to bed.”
Then there’s a small tap on the office door, just before the miniskirt-wearing Miss Himmelsteen enters the office, carrying two cups of steaming coffee for Rick and Marvin. She carefully hands the hot beverages to the two gentlemen.
“This is from Rex’s office, right?”
“Rex said you owe him one of your cigars.”
The agent snorts. “That cheap Jew bastard, the only thing I owe him is a hard time.”
Everybody laughs.
“Thank you, Miss Himmelsteen; that will be all for now.”
She exits, leaving the two men alone to discuss the entertainment business, Rick Dalton’s career, and, more important, his future.
“Where was I?” Marvin asks. “Oh yeah—violence in modern movies. Mary Alice doesn’t like it. But she loves westerns. Always has. We saw westerns all through our courtship. Watching westerns together is one of our favorite things to do, and we thoroughly enjoyed Tanner.”
“Awww, that’s nice,” Rick says.
“Now when we do these double features,” Marvin explains, “by the last three reels of the first film, Mary Alice is asleep in my lap. But for Tanner, she made it to just before the last reel—which was nine-thirty—which is pretty good for Mary Alice.”
As Marvin explains to Rick the movie-viewing habits of the happy couple, Rick takes a sip of the hot coffee.
Hey, that’s good, the actor thinks. This Rex fella does have classy coffee.
Marvin continues, “Movie’s over, she goes to bed. I open up a box of Havana’s, pour myself a cognac, and watch the second movie by myself.”
Rick takes another sip of Rex’s delicious coffee.
Marvin points at the coffee cup. “Good stuff, huh?”
“What,” Rick asks, “the coffee?”
“No, the pastrami. Of course the coffee,” Marvin says, with Catskill timing.
“It’s fuckin’ sensational,” Rick agrees. “Where does he get it?”
“One of these delicatessens here in Beverly Hills, but he won’t say which one,” Marvin says, then continues with Mary Alice’s viewing habits. “This morning after breakfast and after I leave for the office, the projectionist, Greg, comes back and screens the last reel so she can see how the picture ends. And that’s our movie-watching routine. We’re very happy about it. And she was very much looking forward to seeing how Tanner ends.”
Then Marvin adds, “However, she’s already figured out you’re gonna hafta kill your father, Ralph Meeker, before it’s all over.”
“Well, yeah, that’s the problem with the movie,” Rick says. “It ain’t if I kill the domineering patriarch, it’s when. And it ain’t if Michael Callan, the sensitive brother, kills me—it’s when.”
Marvin agrees. “True. But both of us thought you and Ralph Meeker matched up pretty well together.”
“Yeah, me too,” Rick replies. “We did make a good father-and-son team. That fuckin’ Michael Callan looked like he was adopted. But with me, you could believe Ralph was my old man.”
“Well, the reason you matched up so well together was you two shared a similar dialect.”
Rick laughs. “Especially when compared to fuckin’ Michael Callan, who sounded like he should be surfing in Malibu.”
Okay, Marvin thinks, that’s the second time Rick has put down his Tanner co-star Michael Callan. That’s not a good sign. It suggests stinginess in spirit. It suggests a blamer. But Marvin keeps these thoughts to himself.
“I thought Ralph Meeker was sensational,” Rick tells the agent. “The best damn actor I ever worked with, and I’ve worked with Edward G. Robinson! He was also in two of the best Bounty Law’s.”
Marvin continues recounting his Rick Dalton double feature from the night before. “Which brings us to The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey! What a picture! So much fun.” He pantomimes shooting a machine gun. “All the shooting! All the killing!” Marvin asks, “How many Nazi bastards you kill in that picture? A hundred? A hundred and fifty?”
Rick laughs. “I never counted, but a hundred and fifty sounds right.”
Marvin curses them to himself. “Fuckin’ Nazi bastards . . . That’s you operating the flamethrower, ain’t it?”
“You bet your sweet ass it is,” Rick says. “And that’s one shit-fuck crazy weapon you do not want to be on the wrong side of, boy oh boy, let me tell you. I practiced with that dragon three hours a day for two weeks. Not just so I’d look good in the picture, but because I was shit scared of the damn thing, to tell you the truth.”
“Extraordinary,” says the impressed agent.
“You know, it was just sheer luck I got my role,” Rick tells Marvin. “Originally, Fabian had my part. Then eight days before shootin’ he breaks his shoulder doin’ a Virginian. Mr. Wendkos remembered me, talked the brass over at Columbia into getting Universal to loan me out to do McCluskey.” Rick concludes the story the way he always does: “So I do five movies during my contract with Universal. My most successful film? My Columbia loan-out.”
Marvin removes a gold cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket, pops it open with a ping. Offers one to Rick. “Care for a Kent?”
Rick takes one.
“Do you like this cigarette case?”
“It’s very nice.”
“It’s a gift. From Joseph Cotten. One of my most cherished clients.”
Rick gives Marvin the impressed expression the agent is demanding.
“I recently got him both a Sergio Corbucci picture and an Ishirō Honda picture, and this was a token of his gratitude.”
Those names mean nothing to Rick.
As Mr. Schwarz slips the gold cigarette case back in the inside pocket of his jacket, Rick quickly digs his cigarette lighter out of his pants pocket. Snaps open the lid of the silver Zippo and lights both smokes in his cool-guy way. When he’s done lighting both cigarettes, he snaps the lid of the Zippo closed with loud panache. Marvin chuckles at the show of bravado, then inhales the nicotine.
“What do you smoke?” Marvin asks Rick.
“Capitol W Lights,” Rick says. “But also Chesterfields, Red Apples, and, don’t laugh, Virginia Slims.”
Marvin laughs anyway.
“Hey, I like the taste,” is Rick’s defense.
“I’m laughing at you smoking Red Apples,” Marvin explains. “That cigarette is a sin against nicotine.”
“They were the sponsor of Bounty Law, so I got used to them. Also, I thought it was smart to be seen smoking them in public.”
“Very wise,” Marvin says. “Now, Rick, Sid’s your regular agent. And he asked me would I meet you.”
Rick nods his head.
“Do you know why he asked me to get together with you?”
The buzzer on Marvin Schwarz’s desk Dictaphone makes a noise. The William Morris agent’s finger holds the lever down on the box. “Is that my ten-thirty you’re buzzing me about, Miss Himmelsteen?”
“Yes it is, Mr. Schwarz,” his secretary’s voice pipes out of the tiny speaker. “Mr. Dalton is waiting outside.”
Marvin pushes down the lever again. “I’m ready when you are, Miss Himmelsteen.”
When the door to Marvin’s office opens, his young secretary, Miss Himmelsteen, steps in first. She’s a twenty-one-year-old woman of the hippie persuasion. She sports a white miniskirt that shows off her long tan legs and wears her long brown hair in Pocahontas-style pigtails that hang down each side of her head. The handsome forty-two-year-old actor Rick Dalton, and his de rigueur glistening wet brown pompadour, follow behind her.
Marvin’s smile grows wide as he stands up from the chair behind his desk. Miss Himmelsteen tries to do the introductions, but Marvin cuts her off. “Miss Himmelsteen, since I just finished watching a Rick Dalton fuckin’ film festival, no need to introduce this man to me.” Marvin crosses the distance between them, sticking out his hand for the cowboy actor to shake. “Put ’er there, Rick.”
Rick smiles and gives the agent’s hand a big pumping shake. “Rick Dalton. Thank you very much, Mr. Schwartz, for taking the time to meet me.”
Marvin corrects him. “It’s Schwarz, not Schwartz.”
Jesus Christ, I’m fuckin’ this whole thing up already, Rick thinks.
“Goddammit to hell . . . I’m sorry about that . . . Mr. Sch-WARZ.”
As Mr. Schwarz does a final shake of the hand, he says, “Call me Marvin.”
“Marvin, call me Rick.”
“Rick . . .”
They let go of each other’s hand.
“Can Miss Himmelsteen get you a tasty beverage?”
Rick waves the offer away. “No, I’m fine.”
Marvin insists. “Are you sure, nothing? Coffee, Coke, Pepsi, Simba?”
“Alright,” Rick says. “Maybe a cup of coffee.”
“Good.” Clapping the actor on his shoulder, Marvin turns to his young girl Friday. “Miss Himmelsteen, would you be so kind as to get my friend Rick here a cup of coffee, and I’ll have one myself.”
The young lady nods her head in the affirmative and crosses the length of the office. As she starts to close the door behind her, Marvin yells after her, “Oh, and none of that Maxwell House rotgut they got in the break room. Go to Rex’s office,” Marvin instructs. “He’s always got the classiest coffee—but none of that Turkish shit,” Marvin warns.
“Yes, sir,” Miss Himmelsteen answers, then turns to Rick. “How do you take your coffee, Mr. Dalton?”
Rick turns to her and says, “Haven’t you heard? Black is beautiful.”
Marvin lets out a Klaxon-like guffaw, while Miss Himmelsteen covers her mouth with her hand as she giggles. Before his secretary can close the door behind her, Marvin yells out, “Oh, and Miss Himmelsteen, short of my wife and kids dead on the highway, hold all my calls. In fact, if my wife and kids are dead, well, they’ll all be just as dead thirty minutes from now, so hold all my calls.”
The agent gestures for the actor to sit on one of two leather sofas that face each other, a glass-top coffee table in between, and Rick makes himself comfortable.
“First things first,” the agent says. “I send you greetings from my wife, Mary Alice Schwarz! We had a Rick Dalton double feature in our screening room last night.”
“Wow. That’s both flattering and embarrassing,” Rick says. “What did ya see?”
“Film prints of Tanner and The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey.”
“Well, them are two of the good ones,” Rick says. “McCluskey was directed by Paul Wendkos. He’s my favorite of all my directors. He made Gidget. I was supposed to be in that. Tommy Laughlin got my part.” But then he magnanimously waves it away. “But that’s okay, I like Tommy. He got me in the first big play I ever did.”
“Really?” Marvin asks. “You’ve done a lot of theater?”
“Not much,” he says. “I get bored doing the same shit again and again.”
“So Paul Wendkos is your favorite director, huh?” Marvin asks.
“Yeah, I started out with him in my early days. I’m in his Cliff Robertson picture, Battle of the Coral Sea. You can see me and Tommy Laughlin hangin’ out in the back of the submarine the whole damn picture.”
Marvin makes one of his declarative industry statements: “Paul-fuckin’-Wendkos. Underrated action specialist.”
“Very true,” Rick agrees. “And when I landed Bounty Law, he came on and directed about seven or eight episodes.”
“So,” Rick asks, fishing for a compliment, “I hope the Rick Dalton double feature wasn’t too painful for you and the Mrs.?”
Marvin laughs. “Painful? Stop. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.” Marvin continues, “So Mary Alice and I watched Tanner. Mary Alice doesn’t like the violence in modern movies these days, so I saved McCluskey to watch by myself after she went to bed.”
Then there’s a small tap on the office door, just before the miniskirt-wearing Miss Himmelsteen enters the office, carrying two cups of steaming coffee for Rick and Marvin. She carefully hands the hot beverages to the two gentlemen.
“This is from Rex’s office, right?”
“Rex said you owe him one of your cigars.”
The agent snorts. “That cheap Jew bastard, the only thing I owe him is a hard time.”
Everybody laughs.
“Thank you, Miss Himmelsteen; that will be all for now.”
She exits, leaving the two men alone to discuss the entertainment business, Rick Dalton’s career, and, more important, his future.
“Where was I?” Marvin asks. “Oh yeah—violence in modern movies. Mary Alice doesn’t like it. But she loves westerns. Always has. We saw westerns all through our courtship. Watching westerns together is one of our favorite things to do, and we thoroughly enjoyed Tanner.”
“Awww, that’s nice,” Rick says.
“Now when we do these double features,” Marvin explains, “by the last three reels of the first film, Mary Alice is asleep in my lap. But for Tanner, she made it to just before the last reel—which was nine-thirty—which is pretty good for Mary Alice.”
As Marvin explains to Rick the movie-viewing habits of the happy couple, Rick takes a sip of the hot coffee.
Hey, that’s good, the actor thinks. This Rex fella does have classy coffee.
Marvin continues, “Movie’s over, she goes to bed. I open up a box of Havana’s, pour myself a cognac, and watch the second movie by myself.”
Rick takes another sip of Rex’s delicious coffee.
Marvin points at the coffee cup. “Good stuff, huh?”
“What,” Rick asks, “the coffee?”
“No, the pastrami. Of course the coffee,” Marvin says, with Catskill timing.
“It’s fuckin’ sensational,” Rick agrees. “Where does he get it?”
“One of these delicatessens here in Beverly Hills, but he won’t say which one,” Marvin says, then continues with Mary Alice’s viewing habits. “This morning after breakfast and after I leave for the office, the projectionist, Greg, comes back and screens the last reel so she can see how the picture ends. And that’s our movie-watching routine. We’re very happy about it. And she was very much looking forward to seeing how Tanner ends.”
Then Marvin adds, “However, she’s already figured out you’re gonna hafta kill your father, Ralph Meeker, before it’s all over.”
“Well, yeah, that’s the problem with the movie,” Rick says. “It ain’t if I kill the domineering patriarch, it’s when. And it ain’t if Michael Callan, the sensitive brother, kills me—it’s when.”
Marvin agrees. “True. But both of us thought you and Ralph Meeker matched up pretty well together.”
“Yeah, me too,” Rick replies. “We did make a good father-and-son team. That fuckin’ Michael Callan looked like he was adopted. But with me, you could believe Ralph was my old man.”
“Well, the reason you matched up so well together was you two shared a similar dialect.”
Rick laughs. “Especially when compared to fuckin’ Michael Callan, who sounded like he should be surfing in Malibu.”
Okay, Marvin thinks, that’s the second time Rick has put down his Tanner co-star Michael Callan. That’s not a good sign. It suggests stinginess in spirit. It suggests a blamer. But Marvin keeps these thoughts to himself.
“I thought Ralph Meeker was sensational,” Rick tells the agent. “The best damn actor I ever worked with, and I’ve worked with Edward G. Robinson! He was also in two of the best Bounty Law’s.”
Marvin continues recounting his Rick Dalton double feature from the night before. “Which brings us to The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey! What a picture! So much fun.” He pantomimes shooting a machine gun. “All the shooting! All the killing!” Marvin asks, “How many Nazi bastards you kill in that picture? A hundred? A hundred and fifty?”
Rick laughs. “I never counted, but a hundred and fifty sounds right.”
Marvin curses them to himself. “Fuckin’ Nazi bastards . . . That’s you operating the flamethrower, ain’t it?”
“You bet your sweet ass it is,” Rick says. “And that’s one shit-fuck crazy weapon you do not want to be on the wrong side of, boy oh boy, let me tell you. I practiced with that dragon three hours a day for two weeks. Not just so I’d look good in the picture, but because I was shit scared of the damn thing, to tell you the truth.”
“Extraordinary,” says the impressed agent.
“You know, it was just sheer luck I got my role,” Rick tells Marvin. “Originally, Fabian had my part. Then eight days before shootin’ he breaks his shoulder doin’ a Virginian. Mr. Wendkos remembered me, talked the brass over at Columbia into getting Universal to loan me out to do McCluskey.” Rick concludes the story the way he always does: “So I do five movies during my contract with Universal. My most successful film? My Columbia loan-out.”
Marvin removes a gold cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket, pops it open with a ping. Offers one to Rick. “Care for a Kent?”
Rick takes one.
“Do you like this cigarette case?”
“It’s very nice.”
“It’s a gift. From Joseph Cotten. One of my most cherished clients.”
Rick gives Marvin the impressed expression the agent is demanding.
“I recently got him both a Sergio Corbucci picture and an Ishirō Honda picture, and this was a token of his gratitude.”
Those names mean nothing to Rick.
As Mr. Schwarz slips the gold cigarette case back in the inside pocket of his jacket, Rick quickly digs his cigarette lighter out of his pants pocket. Snaps open the lid of the silver Zippo and lights both smokes in his cool-guy way. When he’s done lighting both cigarettes, he snaps the lid of the Zippo closed with loud panache. Marvin chuckles at the show of bravado, then inhales the nicotine.
“What do you smoke?” Marvin asks Rick.
“Capitol W Lights,” Rick says. “But also Chesterfields, Red Apples, and, don’t laugh, Virginia Slims.”
Marvin laughs anyway.
“Hey, I like the taste,” is Rick’s defense.
“I’m laughing at you smoking Red Apples,” Marvin explains. “That cigarette is a sin against nicotine.”
“They were the sponsor of Bounty Law, so I got used to them. Also, I thought it was smart to be seen smoking them in public.”
“Very wise,” Marvin says. “Now, Rick, Sid’s your regular agent. And he asked me would I meet you.”
Rick nods his head.
“Do you know why he asked me to get together with you?”
“To see if you wanted to work with me?” Rick answers.
Marvin laughs. “Well, ultimately, yes. But what I’m getting at is, do you know what I do here at William Morris?”
“Yeah,” Rick says. “You’re an agent.”
“Yeah, but you already got Sid as your agent. If I was just an agent, you wouldn’t be here,” Marvin says.
“Yeah, you’re a special agent,” Rick says.
“Indeed I am,” Marvin says. Then, pointing at Rick with his smoking cigarette, “But I want you to tell mewhat it is you think I do.”
“Well,” Rick says, “the way it was explained to me is you put famous American talent in foreign films.”
“Not bad,” Marvin says.
Now that the two gentlemen are on the same page, both take big drags off their Kents. Marvin exhales a long stream of cigarette smoke and goes into his spiel: “Now, Rick, if we get to know one another, one of the first things about me you’ll learn is nothing . . . and I mean nothing, is as important to me as my client list. The reason I have the contacts I have in the Italian film industry, and the German film industry, and the Japanese film industry, and the Filipino film industry, is both because of the clients I represent and what my client list represents. Unlike others, I am not in the has-been business. I am in the Hollywood-royalty business. Van Johnson—Joseph Cotten—Farley Granger—Russ Tamblyn—Mel Ferrer.”
The agent says each name as if he’s reciting the names of the faces carved on Hollywood’s Mount Rushmore.
“Hollywood royalty with a filmography peppered with all-time classics!”
The agent gives a legendary example: “When a drunk Lee Marvin dropped out of the role of Colonel Mortimer in For a Few Dollars More—three weeks before filming—it was me who got Sergio Leone to take his fat ass to the Sportsmen’s Lodge and have coffee with a newly clean-and-sober Lee Van Cleef.”
The agent lets the magnitude of that story settle in the room. Then, taking a nonchalant drag off his Kent, he blows out the smoke and adds another one of his declarative industry statements: “And the rest, as they say, is new world western mythology.”
Marvin zeroes in on the cowboy actor across the glass table. “Now, Rick, Bounty Law was a good show, and you were good on it. A lot of folks come to town and get famous for doing shit. Ask Gardner McKay.”
Rick laughs at the Gardner McKay dig. Marvin continues, “But Bounty Law was a totally decent cowboy show. And you have that and you can be proud of that. But now, on to the future. . . . But before the future, let’s get a little history straight.”
As the two men smoke cigarettes, Marvin begins quizzing Rick as if he’s either on a game show or being interrogated by the FBI.
“So, Bounty Law—that was NBC, right?”
“Yep. NBC.”
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long was the show?”
“Well, it was a half-hour show, so twenty-three minutes with commercials.”
“And how long did it last?”
“We started in the fall schedule of the ’59–’60 television season.”
“And when did you go off the air?”
“The middle of the ’63–’64 season.”
“Didja ever go to color?”
“Didn’t make color.”
“How’d you get the show? You come in off the street, or did the network groom you?”
“I had guested on a Tales of Wells Fargo. I played Jesse James.”
“So that’s what got their attention?”
“Yes. I still had to screen test. And I had better be fucking good. But yes.”
“Go through the details of the movies you did during your hiatus?”
“Well, the first one,” Rick says, “was Comanche Uprising, starring a very old, very ugly Robert Taylor.But that became a theme in almost all my motion pictures,” Rick explains. “Old guy paired with a young guy. Me and Robert Taylor. Me and Stewart Granger. Me and Glenn Ford. There was never just me on my own,” says the actor, frustrated. “It was always me and some old fuck.”
Marvin asks, “Who directed Comanche Uprising?”
“Bud Springsteen.”
Marvin makes an observation: “I noticed on your résumé you worked with a helluva lot of those old Republic Pictures cowboy directors—Springsteen, William Witney, Harmon Jones, John English?”
Rick laughs. “The get-it-done guys.” Then he clarifies, “But Bud Springsteen wasn’t just a get-it-done guy. Bud didn’t just get it done. Bud was different than those others.”
That interests Marvin. “What was the difference?”
“Huh?” Rick asks.
“Bud and the other get-it-done guys,” Marvin asks. “What was the difference?”
Rick doesn’t have to think about his answer, because he figured this out years ago when guesting on Whirlybirds with Craig Hill, helmed by Bud.
“Bud had the same amount of time as all the rest of those goddamn directors,” Rick says with authority. “Not one day, not one hour, not one sunset more than anybody else. But it was what he did with that time that made Bud good.” Rick says sincerely, “You were proud to work for Bud.”
Marvin likes that.
“And goddamn Wild Bill Witney gave me my start,” Rick says. “He gave me my first real part. You know, a character with a name. Then he gave me my first lead.”
“What film?” Marvin asks.
“Oh, just one of those juvenile-delinquent hot rod flicks for Republic,” Rick says.
Marvin asks, “What was the title?”
“Drag Race, No Stop,” says Rick. “And I did a goddamn Ron Ely Tarzan for him just this last year.”
Marvin laughs. “So you two go back a long way?”
“Me and Bill?” Rick says. “You bet.”
Rick’s getting into his reminiscing and he sees it’s going over well too, so he leans into it. “Let me tell ya ’bout goddamn Bill Witney. The single most underrated action director in this goddamn town. Bill Witney didn’t just direct action, he invented directing action. You said you like westerns—you know that whole Yakima Canutt action gag where he jumps from horse to horse, then falls and goes under the hooves, in John Ford’s fuckin’ Stagecoach?”
Marvin nods his head yes.
As Mr. Schwarz does a final shake of the hand, he says, “Call me Marvin.”
“Marvin, call me Rick.”
“Rick . . .”
They let go of each other’s hand.
“Can Miss Himmelsteen get you a tasty beverage?”
Rick waves the offer away. “No, I’m fine.”
Marvin insists. “Are you sure, nothing? Coffee, Coke, Pepsi, Simba?”
“Alright,” Rick says. “Maybe a cup of coffee.”
“Good.” Clapping the actor on his shoulder, Marvin turns to his young girl Friday. “Miss Himmelsteen, would you be so kind as to get my friend Rick here a cup of coffee, and I’ll have one myself.”
The young lady nods her head in the affirmative and crosses the length of the office. As she starts to close the door behind her, Marvin yells after her, “Oh, and none of that Maxwell House rotgut they got in the break room. Go to Rex’s office,” Marvin instructs. “He’s always got the classiest coffee—but none of that Turkish shit,” Marvin warns.
“Yes, sir,” Miss Himmelsteen answers, then turns to Rick. “How do you take your coffee, Mr. Dalton?”
Rick turns to her and says, “Haven’t you heard? Black is beautiful.”
Marvin lets out a Klaxon-like guffaw, while Miss Himmelsteen covers her mouth with her hand as she giggles. Before his secretary can close the door behind her, Marvin yells out, “Oh, and Miss Himmelsteen, short of my wife and kids dead on the highway, hold all my calls. In fact, if my wife and kids are dead, well, they’ll all be just as dead thirty minutes from now, so hold all my calls.”
The agent gestures for the actor to sit on one of two leather sofas that face each other, a glass-top coffee table in between, and Rick makes himself comfortable.
“First things first,” the agent says. “I send you greetings from my wife, Mary Alice Schwarz! We had a Rick Dalton double feature in our screening room last night.”
“Wow. That’s both flattering and embarrassing,” Rick says. “What did ya see?”
“Film prints of Tanner and The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey.”
“Well, them are two of the good ones,” Rick says. “McCluskey was directed by Paul Wendkos. He’s my favorite of all my directors. He made Gidget. I was supposed to be in that. Tommy Laughlin got my part.” But then he magnanimously waves it away. “But that’s okay, I like Tommy. He got me in the first big play I ever did.”
“Really?” Marvin asks. “You’ve done a lot of theater?”
“Not much,” he says. “I get bored doing the same shit again and again.”
“So Paul Wendkos is your favorite director, huh?” Marvin asks.
“Yeah, I started out with him in my early days. I’m in his Cliff Robertson picture, Battle of the Coral Sea. You can see me and Tommy Laughlin hangin’ out in the back of the submarine the whole damn picture.”
Marvin makes one of his declarative industry statements: “Paul-fuckin’-Wendkos. Underrated action specialist.”
“Very true,” Rick agrees. “And when I landed Bounty Law, he came on and directed about seven or eight episodes.”
“So,” Rick asks, fishing for a compliment, “I hope the Rick Dalton double feature wasn’t too painful for you and the Mrs.?”
Marvin laughs. “Painful? Stop. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.” Marvin continues, “So Mary Alice and I watched Tanner. Mary Alice doesn’t like the violence in modern movies these days, so I saved McCluskey to watch by myself after she went to bed.”
Then there’s a small tap on the office door, just before the miniskirt-wearing Miss Himmelsteen enters the office, carrying two cups of steaming coffee for Rick and Marvin. She carefully hands the hot beverages to the two gentlemen.
“This is from Rex’s office, right?”
“Rex said you owe him one of your cigars.”
The agent snorts. “That cheap Jew bastard, the only thing I owe him is a hard time.”
Everybody laughs.
“Thank you, Miss Himmelsteen; that will be all for now.”
She exits, leaving the two men alone to discuss the entertainment business, Rick Dalton’s career, and, more important, his future.
“Where was I?” Marvin asks. “Oh yeah—violence in modern movies. Mary Alice doesn’t like it. But she loves westerns. Always has. We saw westerns all through our courtship. Watching westerns together is one of our favorite things to do, and we thoroughly enjoyed Tanner.”
“Awww, that’s nice,” Rick says.
“Now when we do these double features,” Marvin explains, “by the last three reels of the first film, Mary Alice is asleep in my lap. But for Tanner, she made it to just before the last reel—which was nine-thirty—which is pretty good for Mary Alice.”
As Marvin explains to Rick the movie-viewing habits of the happy couple, Rick takes a sip of the hot coffee.
Hey, that’s good, the actor thinks. This Rex fella does have classy coffee.
Marvin continues, “Movie’s over, she goes to bed. I open up a box of Havana’s, pour myself a cognac, and watch the second movie by myself.”
Rick takes another sip of Rex’s delicious coffee.
Marvin points at the coffee cup. “Good stuff, huh?”
“What,” Rick asks, “the coffee?”
“No, the pastrami. Of course the coffee,” Marvin says, with Catskill timing.
“It’s fuckin’ sensational,” Rick agrees. “Where does he get it?”
“One of these delicatessens here in Beverly Hills, but he won’t say which one,” Marvin says, then continues with Mary Alice’s viewing habits. “This morning after breakfast and after I leave for the office, the projectionist, Greg, comes back and screens the last reel so she can see how the picture ends. And that’s our movie-watching routine. We’re very happy about it. And she was very much looking forward to seeing how Tanner ends.”
Then Marvin adds, “However, she’s already figured out you’re gonna hafta kill your father, Ralph Meeker, before it’s all over.”
“Well, yeah, that’s the problem with the movie,” Rick says. “It ain’t if I kill the domineering patriarch, it’s when. And it ain’t if Michael Callan, the sensitive brother, kills me—it’s when.”
Marvin agrees. “True. But both of us thought you and Ralph Meeker matched up pretty well together.”
“Yeah, me too,” Rick replies. “We did make a good father-and-son team. That fuckin’ Michael Callan looked like he was adopted. But with me, you could believe Ralph was my old man.”
“Well, the reason you matched up so well together was you two shared a similar dialect.”
Rick laughs. “Especially when compared to fuckin’ Michael Callan, who sounded like he should be surfing in Malibu.”
Okay, Marvin thinks, that’s the second time Rick has put down his Tanner co-star Michael Callan. That’s not a good sign. It suggests stinginess in spirit. It suggests a blamer. But Marvin keeps these thoughts to himself.
“I thought Ralph Meeker was sensational,” Rick tells the agent. “The best damn actor I ever worked with, and I’ve worked with Edward G. Robinson! He was also in two of the best Bounty Law’s.”
Marvin continues recounting his Rick Dalton double feature from the night before. “Which brings us to The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey! What a picture! So much fun.” He pantomimes shooting a machine gun. “All the shooting! All the killing!” Marvin asks, “How many Nazi bastards you kill in that picture? A hundred? A hundred and fifty?”
Rick laughs. “I never counted, but a hundred and fifty sounds right.”
Marvin curses them to himself. “Fuckin’ Nazi bastards . . . That’s you operating the flamethrower, ain’t it?”
“You bet your sweet ass it is,” Rick says. “And that’s one shit-fuck crazy weapon you do not want to be on the wrong side of, boy oh boy, let me tell you. I practiced with that dragon three hours a day for two weeks. Not just so I’d look good in the picture, but because I was shit scared of the damn thing, to tell you the truth.”
“Extraordinary,” says the impressed agent.
“You know, it was just sheer luck I got my role,” Rick tells Marvin. “Originally, Fabian had my part. Then eight days before shootin’ he breaks his shoulder doin’ a Virginian. Mr. Wendkos remembered me, talked the brass over at Columbia into getting Universal to loan me out to do McCluskey.” Rick concludes the story the way he always does: “So I do five movies during my contract with Universal. My most successful film? My Columbia loan-out.”
Marvin removes a gold cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket, pops it open with a ping. Offers one to Rick. “Care for a Kent?”
Rick takes one.
“Do you like this cigarette case?”
“It’s very nice.”
“It’s a gift. From Joseph Cotten. One of my most cherished clients.”
Rick gives Marvin the impressed expression the agent is demanding.
“I recently got him both a Sergio Corbucci picture and an Ishirō Honda picture, and this was a token of his gratitude.”
Those names mean nothing to Rick.
As Mr. Schwarz slips the gold cigarette case back in the inside pocket of his jacket, Rick quickly digs his cigarette lighter out of his pants pocket. Snaps open the lid of the silver Zippo and lights both smokes in his cool-guy way. When he’s done lighting both cigarettes, he snaps the lid of the Zippo closed with loud panache. Marvin chuckles at the show of bravado, then inhales the nicotine.
“What do you smoke?” Marvin asks Rick.
“Capitol W Lights,” Rick says. “But also Chesterfields, Red Apples, and, don’t laugh, Virginia Slims.”
Marvin laughs anyway.
“Hey, I like the taste,” is Rick’s defense.
“I’m laughing at you smoking Red Apples,” Marvin explains. “That cigarette is a sin against nicotine.”
“They were the sponsor of Bounty Law, so I got used to them. Also, I thought it was smart to be seen smoking them in public.”
“Very wise,” Marvin says. “Now, Rick, Sid’s your regular agent. And he asked me would I meet you.”
Rick nods his head.
“Do you know why he asked me to get together with you?”
“To see if you wanted to work with me?” Rick answers.
Marvin laughs. “Well, ultimately, yes. But what I’m getting at is, do you know what I do here at William Morris?”
“Yeah,” Rick says. “You’re an agent.”
“Yeah, but you already got Sid as your agent. If I was just an agent, you wouldn’t be here,” Marvin says.
“Yeah, you’re a special agent,” Rick says.
“Indeed I am,” Marvin says. Then, pointing at Rick with his smoking cigarette, “But I want you to tell mewhat it is you think I do.”
“Well,” Rick says, “the way it was explained to me is you put famous American talent in foreign films.”
“Not bad,” Marvin says.
Now that the two gentlemen are on the same page, both take big drags off their Kents. Marvin exhales a long stream of cigarette smoke and goes into his spiel: “Now, Rick, if we get to know one another, one of the first things about me you’ll learn is nothing . . . and I mean nothing, is as important to me as my client list. The reason I have the contacts I have in the Italian film industry, and the German film industry, and the Japanese film industry, and the Filipino film industry, is both because of the clients I represent and what my client list represents. Unlike others, I am not in the has-been business. I am in the Hollywood-royalty business. Van Johnson—Joseph Cotten—Farley Granger—Russ Tamblyn—Mel Ferrer.”
The agent says each name as if he’s reciting the names of the faces carved on Hollywood’s Mount Rushmore.
“Hollywood royalty with a filmography peppered with all-time classics!”
The agent gives a legendary example: “When a drunk Lee Marvin dropped out of the role of Colonel Mortimer in For a Few Dollars More—three weeks before filming—it was me who got Sergio Leone to take his fat ass to the Sportsmen’s Lodge and have coffee with a newly clean-and-sober Lee Van Cleef.”
The agent lets the magnitude of that story settle in the room. Then, taking a nonchalant drag off his Kent, he blows out the smoke and adds another one of his declarative industry statements: “And the rest, as they say, is new world western mythology.”
Marvin zeroes in on the cowboy actor across the glass table. “Now, Rick, Bounty Law was a good show, and you were good on it. A lot of folks come to town and get famous for doing shit. Ask Gardner McKay.”
Rick laughs at the Gardner McKay dig. Marvin continues, “But Bounty Law was a totally decent cowboy show. And you have that and you can be proud of that. But now, on to the future. . . . But before the future, let’s get a little history straight.”
As the two men smoke cigarettes, Marvin begins quizzing Rick as if he’s either on a game show or being interrogated by the FBI.
“So, Bounty Law—that was NBC, right?”
“Yep. NBC.”
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long was the show?”
“Well, it was a half-hour show, so twenty-three minutes with commercials.”
“And how long did it last?”
“We started in the fall schedule of the ’59–’60 television season.”
“And when did you go off the air?”
“The middle of the ’63–’64 season.”
“Didja ever go to color?”
“Didn’t make color.”
“How’d you get the show? You come in off the street, or did the network groom you?”
“I had guested on a Tales of Wells Fargo. I played Jesse James.”
“So that’s what got their attention?”
“Yes. I still had to screen test. And I had better be fucking good. But yes.”
“Go through the details of the movies you did during your hiatus?”
“Well, the first one,” Rick says, “was Comanche Uprising, starring a very old, very ugly Robert Taylor.But that became a theme in almost all my motion pictures,” Rick explains. “Old guy paired with a young guy. Me and Robert Taylor. Me and Stewart Granger. Me and Glenn Ford. There was never just me on my own,” says the actor, frustrated. “It was always me and some old fuck.”
Marvin asks, “Who directed Comanche Uprising?”
“Bud Springsteen.”
Marvin makes an observation: “I noticed on your résumé you worked with a helluva lot of those old Republic Pictures cowboy directors—Springsteen, William Witney, Harmon Jones, John English?”
Rick laughs. “The get-it-done guys.” Then he clarifies, “But Bud Springsteen wasn’t just a get-it-done guy. Bud didn’t just get it done. Bud was different than those others.”
That interests Marvin. “What was the difference?”
“Huh?” Rick asks.
“Bud and the other get-it-done guys,” Marvin asks. “What was the difference?”
Rick doesn’t have to think about his answer, because he figured this out years ago when guesting on Whirlybirds with Craig Hill, helmed by Bud.
“Bud had the same amount of time as all the rest of those goddamn directors,” Rick says with authority. “Not one day, not one hour, not one sunset more than anybody else. But it was what he did with that time that made Bud good.” Rick says sincerely, “You were proud to work for Bud.”
Marvin likes that.
“And goddamn Wild Bill Witney gave me my start,” Rick says. “He gave me my first real part. You know, a character with a name. Then he gave me my first lead.”
“What film?” Marvin asks.
“Oh, just one of those juvenile-delinquent hot rod flicks for Republic,” Rick says.
Marvin asks, “What was the title?”
“Drag Race, No Stop,” says Rick. “And I did a goddamn Ron Ely Tarzan for him just this last year.”
Marvin laughs. “So you two go back a long way?”
“Me and Bill?” Rick says. “You bet.”
Rick’s getting into his reminiscing and he sees it’s going over well too, so he leans into it. “Let me tell ya ’bout goddamn Bill Witney. The single most underrated action director in this goddamn town. Bill Witney didn’t just direct action, he invented directing action. You said you like westerns—you know that whole Yakima Canutt action gag where he jumps from horse to horse, then falls and goes under the hooves, in John Ford’s fuckin’ Stagecoach?”
Marvin nods his head yes.
“William fuckin’ Witney did it fuckin’ first, and did it one year before John Ford, with Yakima Canutt!”
“I didn’t know that,” Marvin says. “What picture?”
“He hadn’t even made a feature yet,” Rick tells him. “He did that gag for some fuckin’ serial. Let me tell you what it is like being directed by William Witney. Bill Witney works under the assumption that there was no scene ever written that couldn’t be improved by the addition of a fistfight.”
Marvin laughs.
Rick continues, “So I’m doing a Riverboat, with Bill directing. Me and Burt Reynolds in the scene. So me and Burt are doing the scene, sayin’ the dialogue. Then Bill goes, ‘Cut, cut, cut! You guys are puttin’ me to sleep. Burt, when he says that to you, you punch him. And, Rick, when he punches you, that makes you mad, so you punch him back. Got it? Okay, action!’ And so we do it. And when we get done, he yells, ‘Cut! That’s it, boys, now we got a scene!’”
The two men laugh inside the cloud of cigarette smoke that’s filling up the office. Marvin’s starting to warm up to Rick’s sense of hard-earned Hollywood experience. “So tell me about this Stewart Granger film you mentioned?” Marvin asks.
“Big Game,” Rick says. “An African-great-white-hunter piece of crap. They were walking out of it on airplanes.”
Marvin guffaws.
Rick informs the agent, “Stewart Granger was the single biggest prick I ever worked with. And I’ve worked with Jack Lord!”
After the two men chuckle over the Jack Lord dig, Marvin asks the actor, “And you did a picture with George Cukor?”
“Yeah,” Rick says, “a real dog called The Chapman Report. Great director, terrible picture.”
The agent asks, “How did you get along with Cukor?”
“Are you kidding,” Rick asks, “George fucking loved me!” Then he leans a bit over the coffee table and says insinuatingly, in a lower voice, “I mean, really loved me.”
The agent smiles, letting the actor know he gets the insinuation.
“I think that’s a thing George does,” Rick speculates, “He picks a boy on each movie to go ga-ga over. And on
that picture it was between me and Efrem Zimbalist Jr., so I guess I won.” He goes on to illustrate, “So in that picture all my scenes are with Glynis Johns. And we go to a pool. So Glynis is in a one-piece swimsuit. All you can see is legs and arms, everything else is covered up. But me, I’m in the teeny-tiniest pair of swim trunks the censors will allow. Tan swim trunks. On black-and-white film, it looks like I’m fucking naked! And it’s not just a shot of me jumping in the pool. I’m in these tiny trunks, doing big dialogue scenes with my ass hanging out, for ten minutes of the fuckin’ movie. I mean, what the fuck—am I Betty Grable over here?”
Again the two men laugh, as Marvin removes a small leather notebook from the opposite inside jacket pocket of the one containing Joseph Cotten’s gold cigarette case.
“I had a few of my satellites look up your statistics in Europe. And as they say, so far so good.” Searching for the notes in the little book, he asks out loud, “Did Bounty Law air in Europe?” He finds the page he’s looking for, then looks from the page to Rick. “Yes, it did. Good.”
Rick smiles.
Marvin looks back down at the book and says, “Where?” searching the page and finding the data he’s looking for. “Italy, good. England, good. Germany, good. No France.” But then he looks up at Rick and says as consolation, “But, yes, Belgium. So they know who you are in Italy, England, Germany, and Belgium.” Marvin concludes, “So that’s your TV show. But you’ve done a few flicks, so how did they do?”
Marvin looks back down at the little book in his hands, flipping through the little pages, searching its contents. “Actually”—finding what he’s looking for—“All three of your westerns, Comanche Uprising, Hellfire, Texas, and Tanner, did relatively well in Italy, France, and Germany.” Looking back up to Rick: “With Tanner doing even better than that in France. Can you read French?” Marvin asks Rick.
“No,” Rick answers.
“Too bad,” Marvin says as he removes a folded-up Xerox page stuck in the little notebook and hands it across the coffee table to Rick. “This is the Cahiers du Cinéma review of Tanner. It’s a good review, very well written. You should get it translated.”
Rick takes the Xerox from Marvin, nodding at the agent’s suggestion, though the actor knows full well he’ll never do that.
But then Marvin raises his head to meet Rick’s eyes and says, suddenly enthusiastic, “But the best news in this whole fuckin’ book: The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey!”
Rick’s face lights up as Marvin continues, “Now, in America, that did okay for Columbia when it was released. But in Europe, Fuck me!” He lowers his head to read the information in front of him. “Says here The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey was a fuckin’ smash all over Europe. Played everywhere and played for fuckin’ ever!”
Marvin looks up, closes his little book, and concludes, “So in Europe, they know who you are. They know your TV show. But even more than the guy from Bounty Law, in Europe, you’re the cool guy with the eye patch and the flamethrower that kills a hundred and fifty Nazis in The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey.”
After making that huge statement, Marvin grinds his Kent out in the ashtray. “What was your last theatrical feature?”
Now it’s Rick’s turn to grind out his cigarette in the ashtray, as he grunts, “A horrible children’s movie made for the kiddie matinee crowd, called Salty, the Talking Sea Otter.”
Marvin smiles. “I take it you are not the title character?”
Rick smiles grimly at the agent’s joke, but nothing about that movie does he find funny.
“That was the film Universal dumped me in to finish my four-picture contract,” Rick explains. “Which just goes to show how much Universal gave a fuck about me. I remember that prick, Jennings Lang, selling me a whole bill of goods. Luring me over to Universal with a four-picture deal. I had Avco Embassy offering me a deal. National General Pictures offering me a deal. Irving Allen Productions offered me a deal. I turned them all down and went with Universal because they were the major. And because Jennings Lang told me, ‘Universal wants to be in the Rick Dalton business.’ After I signed up, I never saw that prick again.” Referring to the time Invasion of the Body Snatchers producer Walter Wanger shot Jennings Lang in the groin for fucking his wife, Joan Bennett, “If Chapter One“Call Me Marvin”
The buzzer on Marvin Schwarz’s desk Dictaphone makes a noise. The William Morris agent’s finger holds the lever down on the box. “Is that my ten-thirty you’re buzzing me about, Miss Himmelsteen?”
“Yes it is, Mr. Schwarz,” his secretary’s voice pipes out of the tiny speaker. “Mr. Dalton is waiting outside.”
Marvin pushes down the lever again. “I’m ready when you are, Miss Himmelsteen.”
When the door to Marvin’s office opens, his young secretary, Miss Himmelsteen, steps in first. She’s a twenty-one-year-old woman of the hippie persuasion. She sports a white miniskirt that shows off her long tan legs and wears her long brown hair in Pocahontas-style pigtails that hang down each side of her head. The handsome forty-two-year-old actor Rick Dalton, and his de rigueur glistening wet brown pompadour, follow behind her.
Marvin’s smile grows wide as he stands up from the chair behind his desk. Miss Himmelsteen tries to do the introductions, but Marvin cuts her off. “Miss Himmelsteen, since I just finished watching a Rick Dalton fuckin’ film festival, no need to introduce this man to me.” Marvin crosses the distance between them, sticking out his hand for the cowboy actor to shake. “Put ’er there, Rick.”
Rick smiles and gives the agent’s hand a big pumping shake. “Rick Dalton. Thank you very much, Mr. Schwartz, for taking the time to meet me.”
Marvin corrects him. “It’s Schwarz, not Schwartz.”
Jesus Christ, I’m fuckin’ this whole thing up already, Rick thinks.
“Goddammit to hell . . . I’m sorry about that . . . Mr. Sch-WARZ.”
As Mr. Schwarz does a final shake of the hand, he says, “Call me Marvin.”
“Marvin, call me Rick.”
“Rick . . .”
They let go of each other’s hand.
“Can Miss Himmelsteen get you a tasty beverage?”
Rick waves the offer away. “No, I’m fine.”
Marvin insists. “Are you sure, nothing? Coffee, Coke, Pepsi, Simba?”
“Alright,” Rick says. “Maybe a cup of coffee.”
“Good.” Clapping the actor on his shoulder, Marvin turns to his young girl Friday. “Miss Himmelsteen, would you be so kind as to get my friend Rick here a cup of coffee, and I’ll have one myself.”
The young lady nods her head in the affirmative and crosses the length of the office. As she starts to close the door behind her, Marvin yells after her, “Oh, and none of that Maxwell House rotgut they got in the break room. Go to Rex’s office,” Marvin instructs. “He’s always got the classiest coffee—but none of that Turkish shit,” Marvin warns.
“Yes, sir,” Miss Himmelsteen answers, then turns to Rick. “How do you take your coffee, Mr. Dalton?”
Rick turns to her and says, “Haven’t you heard? Black is beautiful.”
Marvin lets out a Klaxon-like guffaw, while Miss Himmelsteen covers her mouth with her hand as she giggles. Before his secretary can close the door behind her, Marvin yells out, “Oh, and Miss Himmelsteen, short of my wife and kids dead on the highway, hold all my calls. In fact, if my wife and kids are dead, well, they’ll all be just as dead thirty minutes from now, so hold all my calls.”
The agent gestures for the actor to sit on one of two leather sofas that face each other, a glass-top coffee table in between, and Rick makes himself comfortable.
“First things first,” the agent says. “I send you greetings from my wife, Mary Alice Schwarz! We had a Rick Dalton double feature in our screening room last night.”
“Wow. That’s both flattering and embarrassing,” Rick says. “What did ya see?”
“Film prints of Tanner and The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey.”
“Well, them are two of the good ones,” Rick says. “McCluskey was directed by Paul Wendkos. He’s my favorite of all my directors. He made Gidget. I was supposed to be in that. Tommy Laughlin got my part.” But then he magnanimously waves it away. “But that’s okay, I like Tommy. He got me in the first big play I ever did.”
“Really?” Marvin asks. “You’ve done a lot of theater?”
“Not much,” he says. “I get bored doing the same shit again and again.”
“So Paul Wendkos is your favorite director, huh?” Marvin asks.
“Yeah, I started out with him in my early days. I’m in his Cliff Robertson picture, Battle of the Coral Sea. You can see me and Tommy Laughlin hangin’ out in the back of the submarine the whole damn picture.”
Marvin makes one of his declarative industry statements: “Paul-fuckin’-Wendkos. Underrated action specialist.”
“Very true,” Rick agrees. “And when I landed Bounty Law, he came on and directed about seven or eight episodes.”
“So,” Rick asks, fishing for a compliment, “I hope the Rick Dalton double feature wasn’t too painful for you and the Mrs.?”
Marvin laughs. “Painful? Stop. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.” Marvin continues, “So Mary Alice and I watched Tanner. Mary Alice doesn’t like the violence in modern movies these days, so I saved McCluskey to watch by myself after she went to bed.”
Then there’s a small tap on the office door, just before the miniskirt-wearing Miss Himmelsteen enters the office, carrying two cups of steaming coffee for Rick and Marvin. She carefully hands the hot beverages to the two gentlemen.
“This is from Rex’s office, right?”
“Rex said you owe him one of your cigars.”
The agent snorts. “That cheap Jew bastard, the only thing I owe him is a hard time.”
Everybody laughs.
“Thank you, Miss Himmelsteen; that will be all for now.”
She exits, leaving the two men alone to discuss the entertainment business, Rick Dalton’s career, and, more important, his future.
“Where was I?” Marvin asks. “Oh yeah—violence in modern movies. Mary Alice doesn’t like it. But she loves westerns. Always has. We saw westerns all through our courtship. Watching westerns together is one of our favorite things to do, and we thoroughly enjoyed Tanner.”
“Awww, that’s nice,” Rick says.
“Now when we do these double features,” Marvin explains, “by the last three reels of the first film, Mary Alice is asleep in my lap. But for Tanner, she made it to just before the last reel—which was nine-thirty—which is pretty good for Mary Alice.”
As Marvin explains to Rick the movie-viewing habits of the happy couple, Rick takes a sip of the hot coffee.
Hey, that’s good, the actor thinks. This Rex fella does have classy coffee.
Marvin continues, “Movie’s over, she goes to bed. I open up a box of Havana’s, pour myself a cognac, and watch the second movie by myself.”
Rick takes another sip of Rex’s delicious coffee.
Marvin points at the coffee cup. “Good stuff, huh?”
“What,” Rick asks, “the coffee?”
“No, the pastrami. Of course the coffee,” Marvin says, with Catskill timing.
“It’s fuckin’ sensational,” Rick agrees. “Where does he get it?”
“One of these delicatessens here in Beverly Hills, but he won’t say which one,” Marvin says, then continues with Mary Alice’s viewing habits. “This morning after breakfast and after I leave for the office, the projectionist, Greg, comes back and screens the last reel so she can see how the picture ends. And that’s our movie-watching routine. We’re very happy about it. And she was very much looking forward to seeing how Tanner ends.”
Then Marvin adds, “However, she’s already figured out you’re gonna hafta kill your father, Ralph Meeker, before it’s all over.”
“Well, yeah, that’s the problem with the movie,” Rick says. “It ain’t if I kill the domineering patriarch, it’s when. And it ain’t if Michael Callan, the sensitive brother, kills me—it’s when.”
Marvin agrees. “True. But both of us thought you and Ralph Meeker matched up pretty well together.”
“Yeah, me too,” Rick replies. “We did make a good father-and-son team. That fuckin’ Michael Callan looked like he was adopted. But with me, you could believe Ralph was my old man.”
“Well, the reason you matched up so well together was you two shared a similar dialect.”
Rick laughs. “Especially when compared to fuckin’ Michael Callan, who sounded like he should be surfing in Malibu.”
Okay, Marvin thinks, that’s the second time Rick has put down his Tanner co-star Michael Callan. That’s not a good sign. It suggests stinginess in spirit. It suggests a blamer. But Marvin keeps these thoughts to himself.
“I thought Ralph Meeker was sensational,” Rick tells the agent. “The best damn actor I ever worked with, and I’ve worked with Edward G. Robinson! He was also in two of the best Bounty Law’s.”
Marvin continues recounting his Rick Dalton double feature from the night before. “Which brings us to The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey! What a picture! So much fun.” He pantomimes shooting a machine gun. “All the shooting! All the killing!” Marvin asks, “How many Nazi bastards you kill in that picture? A hundred? A hundred and fifty?”
Rick laughs. “I never counted, but a hundred and fifty sounds right.”
Marvin curses them to himself. “Fuckin’ Nazi bastards . . . That’s you operating the flamethrower, ain’t it?”
“You bet your sweet ass it is,” Rick says. “And that’s one shit-fuck crazy weapon you do not want to be on the wrong side of, boy oh boy, let me tell you. I practiced with that dragon three hours a day for two weeks. Not just so I’d look good in the picture, but because I was shit scared of the damn thing, to tell you the truth.”
“Extraordinary,” says the impressed agent.
“You know, it was just sheer luck I got my role,” Rick tells Marvin. “Originally, Fabian had my part. Then eight days before shootin’ he breaks his shoulder doin’ a Virginian. Mr. Wendkos remembered me, talked the brass over at Columbia into getting Universal to loan me out to do McCluskey.” Rick concludes the story the way he always does: “So I do five movies during my contract with Universal. My most successful film? My Columbia loan-out.”
Marvin removes a gold cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket, pops it open with a ping. Offers one to Rick. “Care for a Kent?”
Rick takes one.
“Do you like this cigarette case?”
“It’s very nice.”
“It’s a gift. From Joseph Cotten. One of my most cherished clients.”
Rick gives Marvin the impressed expression the agent is demanding.
“I recently got him both a Sergio Corbucci picture and an Ishirō Honda picture, and this was a token of his gratitude.”
Those names mean nothing to Rick.
As Mr. Schwarz slips the gold cigarette case back in the inside pocket of his jacket, Rick quickly digs his cigarette lighter out of his pants pocket. Snaps open the lid of the silver Zippo and lights both smokes in his cool-guy way. When he’s done lighting both cigarettes, he snaps the lid of the Zippo closed with loud panache. Marvin chuckles at the show of bravado, then inhales the nicotine.
“What do you smoke?” Marvin asks Rick.
“Capitol W Lights,” Rick says. “But also Chesterfields, Red Apples, and, don’t laugh, Virginia Slims.”
Marvin laughs anyway.
“Hey, I like the taste,” is Rick’s defense.
“I’m laughing at you smoking Red Apples,” Marvin explains. “That cigarette is a sin against nicotine.”
“They were the sponsor of Bounty Law, so I got used to them. Also, I thought it was smart to be seen smoking them in public.”
“Very wise,” Marvin says. “Now, Rick, Sid’s your regular agent. And he asked me would I meet you.”
Rick nods his head.
“Do you know why he asked me to get together with you?”
“To see if you wanted to work with me?” Rick answers.
Marvin laughs. “Well, ultimately, yes. But what I’m getting at is, do you know what I do here at William Morris?”
“Yeah,” Rick says. “You’re an agent.”
“Yeah, but you already got Sid as your agent. If I was just an agent, you wouldn’t be here,” Marvin says.
“Yeah, you’re a special agent,” Rick says.
“Indeed I am,” Marvin says. Then, pointing at Rick with his smoking cigarette, “But I want you to tell mewhat it is you think I do.”
“Well,” Rick says, “the way it was explained to me is you put famous American talent in foreign films.”
“Not bad,” Marvin says.
Now that the two gentlemen are on the same page, both take big drags off their Kents. Marvin exhales a long stream of cigarette smoke and goes into his spiel: “Now, Rick, if we get to know one another, one of the first things about me you’ll learn is nothing . . . and I mean nothing, is as important to me as my client list. The reason I have the contacts I have in the Italian film industry, and the German film industry, and the Japanese film industry, and the Filipino film industry, is both because of the clients I represent and what my client list represents. Unlike others, I am not in the has-been business. I am in the Hollywood-royalty business. Van Johnson—Joseph Cotten—Farley Granger—Russ Tamblyn—Mel Ferrer.”
The agent says each name as if he’s reciting the names of the faces carved on Hollywood’s Mount Rushmore.
“Hollywood royalty with a filmography peppered with all-time classics!”
The agent gives a legendary example: “When a drunk Lee Marvin dropped out of the role of Colonel Mortimer in For a Few Dollars More—three weeks before filming—it was me who got Sergio Leone to take his fat ass to the Sportsmen’s Lodge and have coffee with a newly clean-and-sober Lee Van Cleef.”
The agent lets the magnitude of that story settle in the room. Then, taking a nonchalant drag off his Kent, he blows out the smoke and adds another one of his declarative industry statements: “And the rest, as they say, is new world western mythology.”
Marvin zeroes in on the cowboy actor across the glass table. “Now, Rick, Bounty Law was a good show, and you were good on it. A lot of folks come to town and get famous for doing shit. Ask Gardner McKay.”
Rick laughs at the Gardner McKay dig. Marvin continues, “But Bounty Law was a totally decent cowboy show. And you have that and you can be proud of that. But now, on to the future. . . . But before the future, let’s get a little history straight.”
As the two men smoke cigarettes, Marvin begins quizzing Rick as if he’s either on a game show or being interrogated by the FBI.
“So, Bounty Law—that was NBC, right?”
“Yep. NBC.”
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long was the show?”
“Well, it was a half-hour show, so twenty-three minutes with commercials.”
“And how long did it last?”
“We started in the fall schedule of the ’59–’60 television season.”
“And when did you go off the air?”
“The middle of the ’63–’64 season.”
“Didja ever go to color?”
“Didn’t make color.”
“How’d you get the show? You come in off the street, or did the network groom you?”
“I had guested on a Tales of Wells Fargo. I played Jesse James.”
“So that’s what got their attention?”
“Yes. I still had to screen test. And I had better be fucking good. But yes.”
“Go through the details of the movies you did during your hiatus?”
“Well, the first one,” Rick says, “was Comanche Uprising, starring a very old, very ugly Robert Taylor.But that became a theme in almost all my motion pictures,” Rick explains. “Old guy paired with a young guy. Me and Robert Taylor. Me and Stewart Granger. Me and Glenn Ford. There was never just me on my own,” says the actor, frustrated. “It was always me and some old fuck.”
Marvin asks, “Who directed Comanche Uprising?”
“Bud Springsteen.”
Marvin makes an observation: “I noticed on your résumé you worked with a helluva lot of those old Republic Pictures cowboy directors—Springsteen, William Witney, Harmon Jones, John English?”
Rick laughs. “The get-it-done guys.” Then he clarifies, “But Bud Springsteen wasn’t just a get-it-done guy. Bud didn’t just get it done. Bud was different than those others.”
That interests Marvin. “What was the difference?”
“Huh?” Rick asks.
“Bud and the other get-it-done guys,” Marvin asks. “What was the difference?”
Rick doesn’t have to think about his answer, because he figured this out years ago when guesting on Whirlybirds with Craig Hill, helmed by Bud.
“Bud had the same amount of time as all the rest of those goddamn directors,” Rick says with authority. “Not one day, not one hour, not one sunset more than anybody else. But it was what he did with that time that made Bud good.” Rick says sincerely, “You were proud to work for Bud.”
Marvin likes that.
“And goddamn Wild Bill Witney gave me my start,” Rick says. “He gave me my first real part. You know, a character with a name. Then he gave me my first lead.”
“What film?” Marvin asks.
“Oh, just one of those juvenile-delinquent hot rod flicks for Republic,” Rick says.
Marvin asks, “What was the title?”
“Drag Race, No Stop,” says Rick. “And I did a goddamn Ron Ely Tarzan for him just this last year.”
Marvin laughs. “So you two go back a long way?”
“Me and Bill?” Rick says. “You bet.”
Rick’s getting into his reminiscing and he sees it’s going over well too, so he leans into it. “Let me tell ya ’bout goddamn Bill Witney. The single most underrated action director in this goddamn town. Bill Witney didn’t just direct action, he invented directing action. You said you like westerns—you know that whole Yakima Canutt action gag where he jumps from horse to horse, then falls and goes under the hooves, in John Ford’s fuckin’ Stagecoach?”
Marvin nods his head yes.
“William fuckin’ Witney did it fuckin’ first, and did it one year before John Ford, with Yakima Canutt!”
“I didn’t know that,” Marvin says. “What picture?”
“He hadn’t even made a feature yet,” Rick tells him. “He did that gag for some fuckin’ serial. Let me tell you what it is like being directed by William Witney. Bill Witney works under the assumption that there was no scene ever written that couldn’t be improved by the addition of a fistfight.”
Marvin laughs.
Rick continues, “So I’m doing a Riverboat, with Bill directing. Me and Burt Reynolds in the scene. So me and Burt are doing the scene, sayin’ the dialogue. Then Bill goes, ‘Cut, cut, cut! You guys are puttin’ me to sleep. Burt, when he says that to you, you punch him. And, Rick, when he punches you, that makes you mad, so you punch him back. Got it? Okay, action!’ And so we do it. And when we get done, he yells, ‘Cut! That’s it, boys, now we got a scene!’”
The two men laugh inside the cloud of cigarette smoke that’s filling up the office. Marvin’s starting to warm up to Rick’s sense of hard-earned Hollywood experience. “So tell me about this Stewart Granger film you mentioned?” Marvin asks.
“Big Game,” Rick says. “An African-great-white-hunter piece of crap. They were walking out of it on airplanes.”
Marvin guffaws.
Rick informs the agent, “Stewart Granger was the single biggest prick I ever worked with. And I’ve worked with Jack Lord!”
After the two men chuckle over the Jack Lord dig, Marvin asks the actor, “And you did a picture with George Cukor?”
“Yeah,” Rick says, “a real dog called The Chapman Report. Great director, terrible picture.”
The agent asks, “How did you get along with Cukor?”
“Are you kidding,” Rick asks, “George fucking loved me!” Then he leans a bit over the coffee table and says insinuatingly, in a lower voice, “I mean, really loved me.”
The agent smiles, letting the actor know he gets the insinuation.
“I think that’s a thing George does,” Rick speculates, “He picks a boy on each movie to go ga-ga over. And on that picture it was between me and Efrem Zimbalist Jr., so I guess I won.” He goes on to illustrate, “So in that picture all my scenes are with Glynis Johns. And we go to a pool. So Glynis is in a one-piece swimsuit. All you can see is legs and arms, everything else is covered up. But me, I’m in the teeny-tiniest pair of swim trunks the censors will allow. Tan swim trunks. On black-and-white film, it looks like I’m fucking naked! And it’s not just a shot of me jumping in the pool. I’m in these tiny trunks, doing big dialogue scenes with my ass hanging out, for ten minutes of the fuckin’ movie. I mean, what the fuck—am I Betty Grable over here?”
Again the two men laugh, as Marvin removes a small leather notebook from the opposite inside jacket pocket of the one containing Joseph Cotten’s gold cigarette case.
“I had a few of my satellites look up your statistics in Europe. And as they say, so far so good.” Searching for the notes in the little book, he asks out loud, “Did Bounty Law air in Europe?” He finds the page he’s looking for, then looks from the page to Rick. “Yes, it did. Good.”
Rick smiles.
Marvin looks back down at the book and says, “Where?” searching the page and finding the data he’s looking for. “Italy, good. England, good. Germany, good. No France.” But then he looks up at Rick and says as consolation, “But, yes, Belgium. So they know who you are in Italy, England, Germany, and Belgium.” Marvin concludes, “So that’s your TV show. But you’ve done a few flicks, so how did they do?”
Marvin looks back down at the little book in his hands, flipping through the little pages, searching its contents. “Actually”—finding what he’s looking for—“All three of your westerns, Comanche Uprising, Hellfire, Texas, and Tanner, did relatively well in Italy, France, and Germany.” Looking back up to Rick: “With Tanner doing even better than that in France. Can you read French?” Marvin asks Rick.
“No,” Rick answers.
“Too bad,” Marvin says as he removes a folded-up Xerox page stuck in the little notebook and hands it across the coffee table to Rick. “This is the Cahiers du Cinéma review of Tanner. It’s a good review, very well written. You should get it translated.”
Rick takes the Xerox from Marvin, nodding at the agent’s suggestion, though the actor knows full well he’ll never do that.
But then Marvin raises his head to meet Rick’s eyes and says, suddenly enthusiastic, “But the best news in this whole fuckin’ book: The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey!”
Rick’s face lights up as Marvin continues, “Now, in America, that did okay for Columbia when it was released. But in Europe, Fuck me!” He lowers his head to read the information in front of him. “Says here The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey was a fuckin’ smash all over Europe. Played everywhere and played for fuckin’ ever!”
Marvin looks up, closes his little book, and concludes, “So in Europe, they know who you are. They know your TV show. But even more than the guy from Bounty Law, in Europe, you’re the cool guy with the eye patch and the flamethrower that kills a hundred and fifty Nazis in The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey.”
After making that huge statement, Marvin grinds his Kent out in the ashtray. “What was your last theatrical feature?”
Now it’s Rick’s turn to grind out his cigarette in the ashtray, as he grunts, “A horrible children’s movie made for the kiddie matinee crowd, called Salty, the Talking Sea Otter.”
Marvin smiles. “I take it you are not the title character?”
Rick smiles grimly at the agent’s joke, but nothing about that movie does he find funny.
“That was the film Universal dumped me in to finish my four-picture contract,” Rick explains. “Which just goes to show how much Universal gave a fuck about me. I remember that prick, Jennings Lang, selling me a whole bill of goods. Luring me over to Universal with a four-picture deal. I had Avco Embassy offering me a deal. National General Pictures offering me a deal. Irving Allen Productions offered me a deal. I turned them all down and went with Universal because they were the major. And because Jennings Lang told me, ‘Universal wants to be in the Rick Dalton business.’ After I signed up, I never saw that prick again.” Referring to the time Invasion of the Body Snatchers producer Walter Wanger shot Jennings Lang in the groin for fucking his wife, Joan Bennett, “If anybody deserved to get their balls shot off, it’s that prick Jennings Lang.” Adding bitterly, “Universal was never in the Rick Dalton business.”
Rick picks up his coffee cup and takes a sip. It’s gone cold. He puts it back down on the table with a sigh.
Marvin continues, “So for the last two years you’ve been doing guest shots on episodic TV shows?”
Rick nods his head in the affirmative. “Yeah, I’m doing a pilot for CBS right now, Lancer. I’m the heavy. I did a Green Hornet. A Land of the Giants. A Ron Ely Tarzan, the one I mentioned I did with William Witney. I did that show Bingo Martin with that kid Scott Brown.”
Rick doesn’t like Scott Brown, so when he mentions his name, he subconsciously gives a dismissive look. “And I just finished an FBI for Quinn Martin.”
Marvin sips his coffee, even though it’s gone a little cool. “So you’ve been doing pretty good?”
“I been working,” Rick says as if to clarify.
“Did you play the bad guy in all these shows?” Marvin asks.
“Not Land of the Giants, but the rest, yeah.”
“Did they all end in fight scenes?”
“Again, not Land of the Giants or The FBI, but the rest, yeah.”
“Now the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.” Marvin asks, “Did you lose the fight?”
“Of course,” Rick says. “I’m the heavy.”
Marvin lets out a big “ahhhhh” to make his point. “That’s an old trick pulled by the networks. Take Bingo Martin, for example. So you got a new guy like Scott Brown and you wanna build up his bona fides. So you hire a guy from a canceled show to play the heavy. Then at the end of the show, when they fight, it’s hero besting heavy.”
But then Marvin goes on to explain, “But what the audience sees is Bingo Martin whippin’ the guy from Bounty Law’s ass.”
Ouch, thinks Rick. That fuckin’ smarted.
But Marvin’s not done. “Then next week, it’s Ron Ely in his loincloth. And the week after that, it’s Bob Conrad in his tight pants kickin’ your ass.” Marvin drives his right fist into the palm of his left hand for effect. “Another coupla years playin’ punchin’ bag to every swingin’ dick
new to the network,” Marvin explains, “is going to have a psychological effect on how the audience perceives you.”
The masculine humiliation of what Marvin’s suggesting, even though he’s only referring to playacting, is making Rick’s brow perspire. I’m a punching bag? Is this my career now? Losing fights to this season’s new swingin’ dick? Is that how Tris Coffin, star of 26 Men, felt when he lost his fight to me on Bounty Law? Or Kent Taylor?
While Rick dwells on this, Marvin moves on to another subject.
“Now, I’ve had at least four people tell me a story about you,” Schwarz starts, “but none of them know the whole story, so I want you to tell me.” Marvin asks, “What’s this about you almost playing the McQueen role in The Great Escape?”
Oh Christ, not this fucking story again, thinks Rick. Though completely unamused, he laughs it off for Marvin’s benefit. “It’s only a good story for the Sportsmen’s Lodge crowd.” Rick chuckles, “You know, the part you almost got. The fish that got away.”
“Those are my favorite stories,” the agent says. “Tell me.”
Rick has had to tell this shaggy-dog story so much, he’s reduced it down to its basic elements. Swallowing his resentment, Rick plays the part that’s a little out of his range: a humble actor.
“Well,” Rick begins, “apparently, at the same time that John Sturges offered McQueen the title role of Hilts, the Cooler King, in The Great Escape, Carl Foreman”—referencing the powerhouse writer-producer of The Guns of Navarone and The Bridge on the River Kwai—“was making his directorial debut with a film called The Victors, and he offered McQueen one of the lead roles, ...
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